


Pretense and Obsession - Anderovska

by kafreses



Series: Pretense and Obsession [1]
Category: Glee, klaine - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Historical Klaine AU, M/M, Mysticism, Paganism, Regency Period, Witchcraft, klaine AU, warfare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 75,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26674165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kafreses/pseuds/kafreses
Summary: The first sign came with when armed might advanced beyond accepted borders. Confirmation arrived with the signing of a document on the night, when unbeknown to all, three old crones foretold the impending fate. With the might of Imperial France controlling Europe, two former allies shed blood on the vast open steppes. Ships flying the British ensign drop anchor in the harbour of Saint Petersburg intending to rekindle an old friendship. Forces within the Imperial Court of Tsar Aleksandr rally on both sides of a politically charged issue. Within this world of strict social convention and the absolute power of the nobility, the battle lines flicker in the crystal chandeliers of elegant ballrooms. Flamboyant music and the sway of eloquent gowns introduce the son of an Earl to an unprepared Grand Duke.
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel
Series: Pretense and Obsession [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940893
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. Vestermarie

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to be as historically accurate as possible even though the nature of this tale required some variances. I incorporated language appropriate for the era, mostly in speaking parts. Please see the chapter endnotes for explanations, which are denoted by footnote markers (1).

**27 October 1807**

Lightning streaked between ponderous clouds, and the forest shook from the thunder. The aggressive squall pierced the wood, and the birds and animals escaped to their domiciles and sanctuary. The trees twisted with the violence casting leaves into the air and the sickly ones cracked apart. The sky grew darker, and then a tremendous explosion brightened the night, sending a jagged finger of electricity smashed into the stump setting it aflame. A hole formed in the clouds through which the rays of the unnatural full moon cast a dim gleam on the inferno. The glow flicked off the feathers of the owl orbiting down from high above. A tail coated in fluffy, silver fur belonging to a weasel-like animal, wiggled through the scrub and over a rock. The hooves of a deer shattered branches as it bound out of the trees leaping over a fallen log with effortless grace.

Neither wind nor flying debris hindered their passage as the three woodland creatures approached the blaze where they became human figures clad in layers of rags. Long strands of grey hair tumbled from the cowls draped over their heads, and the trembling of the flames cast light on aged faces. Each regarded the others in a particular fashion and bowed while lifting their hands to the sky. The embers grew higher, and each closed their eyes as if responding to a call. The whispers of an ancient language carried on the whirling mass outside the illuminating shaft sang of trepidation passed to them from great distances.

Pillars of flicking orange light rolled up before them, highlighting the rumpled features. Each made a different and significant gesture before their faces, and the blazing stump popped, throwing embers into the airs. Sparks hovered before each of their mouths, and the languages of their native lands became known to all.

“Blessing of Lähanläér, sisters,” the three said as one as they spoke in the ancient and musical words of the Fey. The vegetation within the hallow of moonlight trembled as leaning in.

“The Great Tree sheds tears,” a tall and heavily set woman bound in tatter wool and fur cautioned. Her Russian words caused the floating sparks to ungulate.

She hunched forward using a gnarled tree branch to support herself and coughed. The gnarled woman spoke a husky French accent voice made hoarse with age, “The hyena barks in the dark.”

Gnarled fingers tugged a leafy twig from pepper-white hair, and lively eyes gazed upon it before the brawny woman flung it into the crackling fire. She examined the flames as if seeking something and then spoke in a thick Cockney accent, “The lion is in place.”

“The bear is at rest.” The Russian speaking woman looked to the others with concern. The silver-white fur surrounding her face ruffled as if it lived and then settled back in place. “The cub shield stands prepared.” 

A feather drifting on the still air twirled toward the embers and caught fire. The unctuous image of unadulterated animosity sputtered in the coals at the base of the fire, where it hissed and then evaporated. The hunchback from the land of the hyena lowered her head and declared, “Insatiable malice provokes.”

Lively eyes beheld the turbulent sky, and the Russian intoned, “The Beast will devour.” 

“Bathing Iberia in blood.” The woman of the western isles cast her hand through the flames with no injury. “Dark eyes will cast east, where the cub of Amblesey must stir the Anderovska cub.”

The arm of the _Pythoness_ of Orleans rose over her head to become the wings of an owl. The great bird sailed up and circled into the moonlight with searching eyes. The owl hooted, “I will watch and warn. Blessing of Lähanläér, sisters.”

Enraged rumbling rolled in the heavens, and two well seasoned women gazed at each other as the fire sank close to the soil. Shadows cast upon old skin diminished as the clouds surged to obscure the moon once more. The High Druid gawked at the perishing flames as the encroaching winds whipped up beyond the thinning veil of moonlight. Her head tilted to the side as if she noticed an oddity, and then she peeked at the Witch of Razliv. Her eyes narrowed, and she whispered, “Raze a city least the hyena sate itself at the nugging-house1 for warmth.”

“It may be inescapable, sister.” The winkle around the eyes captured liquid, now splashing exposed skin. The Witch of Razliv looked down, and then she influenced her comrade with a touch on the arm. Two sets of eyes stared into the quickly waning cinders to see two men and two women in a grand chamber filled with gayly dressed revellers. The rising smoke hinted at the immensity of emotion suffered by one man, and the resilience of the other.

The High Druid viewed the vision until the angry rain, and the turbulent wind snuffs it out. Her lips parted, revealing perfect teeth, and she bowed her head to accept Lähanläér’s gift of what may yet come to pass. In a low voice, she added, “Guard well, sister. Anglers2 prowl the steppes.”

“I will be watchful. Blessing of Lähanläér, beloved sister.” The keeper of the north nodded, and together the guardians faded into the ferocity of the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Nugging-house - A brothel.
> 
> 2 Anglers - Pilferers, or petty thieves, who, with a stick having a hook at the end, steal goods out of shop-windows, grates; also those who draw in or entice unwary persons to prick at the belt, or such like devices.
> 
> For this story, Tsar Paul 1 of Russia was born in 1748 (Historically 1754). Tsar Aleksandr was born in 1767 (Historically 1777) and Grand Duke Konstantin in 1769 (Historically 1779). Grand Duke Deyven is the fictitious twin of Grand Duke Konstantin. The three sons of Tsar Paul were born to his first wife, Tsarina Natalia Alexeievna.


	2. Kamennoostrovsky – Imperial Knight

**18 July 1812**

The stiff-backed, portly middle-aged man wearing a mid-calf length black coat with mink trim set an even and thoughtful pace as he promenaded ahead of his evening's honoured guests. The soft bottom of his polished wooden staff fell lightly on the gleaming marble floor creating a discernible thud. He held his motionless head pompously high with his jaw set. The light streaming through the tall windows splashed across his face as he passed each pane, creating an alluring moment that illustrated the stories held in his craggy face. The large, arched panes of glass peered into the spacious garden to the right, and tall mirrors directly opposite. Grand portraits and stunning landscapes hung on the wall between the portals of reflective light, grounding the corridor in a formal setting. The sections of the grand palace they passed through encouraged speculation about the important personage who inhabited its grandiose rooms.

Approaching the lofty mirrored doors elegantly appointed with golden swirls, provided a glimpse of the sumptuous ballroom at the rear of the Kamennoostrovsky Palace. The host chose the time of day to accentuate the sumptuous interior because the setting sun sparkled over the crystal chandeliers and ornate gold. Towering, arched windows filled one side of the room set in cream walls accented with bright blue panel surrounded by gold eddies. The pristine luxury of a striking fresco traversed the length of the oval dome centred over the dance floor. Two life-sized portraits dominated the far end of the spacious chamber separated by tall, wide double glass doors. To the right, Tsar Aleksandr wearing the impressive Imperial State crown stuck a majestic pose with a long ermine and red cape pooled around his boots. To the left, and adorned in a long cream-white gown, Tsarina Elizabeth Alexeievna, sat in a chair with a demure look on her face. A peaked tiara made of a dozen large drop diamonds and pearls rested in the hair artfully swirled upon her head. The magnificent diamond necklace swooped down toward a modest neckline accenting the single teardrop, egg-sized ruby. The two portraits hung in golden frames set in a sculpted wall.

The honoured guests stood back from the threshold to wait. The thick railing permitted a partial view of the marble ballroom floor inlaid with intricate green, blue and black patterns extending toward the majestic portraits. Marble stairs, carpeted in a broad red runner, led down from the right and left to the ballroom's ornate perimeter. Some hundred nobles congregated in groups or toured the grand room's perimeter giving the impression the vast space may contain many more revellers. A half orchestra dominated a grand balcony held up by wide arches spanned the distance between two outer walls. Constructed high above the entrance and obscured from the staircase by elegant screens, the veranda did not block the view of the majestic chamber.

The self-important servant handed a piece of thick parchment to someone out of view and then backed away. Moments later, the sound of a wooded rod striking the marble floor three times announced the inauguration of this evening machinations. The officious aged man wearing a mid-calf length red coat with golden trim took two steps toward the railing, and his booming voice reached the furthest reaches of the vast chamber. The minds of the honoured guests transformed the Russian phrases into the King's good English. "Presenting His Excellency, Lord Burton Hummel, Earl of Amblesey, Envoy of his August Majesty, King George of Great Britain to the court of his Most Imperial Majesty, Aleksandr, Tsar of all the Russias. Lord Kurt Hummel, Baron of Walditch and Lady Rachel Berry."

The Earl of Amblesey advanced toward the railing to provide those observing sufficient viewing privileges. The trappings of opulent power arrayed before him did not sway the Earl, who identified the upcoming game by the lack or abundance of motion from below. As expected, a hush perpetrated by turning heads gathered over the gayly and generously dressed noble gentlemen and ladies of Saint Petersburg. Spirited sets spoke with a quiet demur while more seemly personages stepped back to give space. Some gazed upon their esteemed visitors with inquisitiveness and others with discourteous indifference.

The absence of the Earl’s Swedish counterpart, Carl Carlsson Gyllenhielm, Baron of Bergkvara, spoke to the importance of the British attendance and offered ample foreshadowing of this evening's entertainment. No cannon or riflemen assembled in close-quarter marked the order of battle in this place where tongues and beguiling muses became the weapons of choice. A month past, Britain and Russia waged war on the high seas, one in support and the other opposing France's will. The possibility of enduring peace erupted the moment France broke its pledge by marching the Grande Armée onto the soil of Mother Russia.

Delicate rainbows played across the polished crystal of high chandeliers on either side of the grand entry reflecting on the beautiful grain of imported marble. At the same time, the brightness of the waning sun frolicked over His Excellency's freshly shaven skelp. The golden braid on the bright red uniform's sleeves and stiff collar identified him as a colonel in His Majesty's Grenadiers Light Calvary. The Order of the Garter, awarded by a grateful sovereign, rested prominently on the blue sash denoting his diplomatic status. The Knight Commander of the Order of Bath pinned on a red backdrop sparkled in the orange-red light streaming through windows.

In the months preceding France's rise as the dominant power in Europe, the Earl’s reports garnered him praise and reticule with those at the English court. Understandably, they carried less favour with the French ambassador. The week ruckus war devalued the borders of Imperial France's neighbours, and the Earl rallied Portuguese support in favour of England. Much like his father, who gained renown during the American colonial revolt against their rightful King, the Earl's standing in London improved greatly in the first weeks of French ambitions.

With the French expulsion from Portugal and the enduring fighting in Spain, King George recalled the Earl to London. Burton Hummel found himself assigned to the foreign service as a military liaison to England's European allies. By then, Napoleon controlled a large swath of the continent, making nations client states through treaties and the presence of French garrisons. Through military connections in several of these nations, the Earl played out successive rounds in an intriguing derby of one-upmanship. With the friction between Napoleon and Aleksandr escalating through eighteen hundred and eleven into eighteen hundred and twelve, the King asked the Earl to join the secret negotiation with Russia and Sweden.

The uniforms of those gazing at the Earl told the statesman much. For the most part, the ranks comprised army officers who had little dealings with the British, but the sprinkling of naval livery presented a distinct challenge. In eighteen hundred and seven, Napoleon defeated the Russians at the Battle of Friedland, forcing the Tsar to sign a peace treaty cancelling all commerce with Great Britain. The conflict turned out to be a fallacy because the Tsar Aleksandr pursued clandestine trade with the island nation. War being war, a few incidents happened with the worst being the detention of the Russian Black Seas squadron in Lisbon.

No royal court existed without its conspiracies created by idle minds. The correctness of his majesty's court at Kew Palace and maneuverings in Westminster equipped the Earl Amblesey for the occasional polite bruhaha. While the patriotic majority aided the war, some desired only to profit from it while restraining their children from participating. The Earl and his friends thought this shameful and often made their opinions known, creating exciting intrigues. These skills aided the Earl, his son and ward, when two nights past, they presented themselves to Tsar Aleksandr and enjoyed a gracious evening. Tonight, at the Kamennoostrovsky Palace, the Earl expected an arduous affair.

From an early age, the Earl worked closely with his father concerning family activities and the estate. His sire busied himself with the affairs of state, and the arguments he became embroiled in did not make him fashionable in some circles. One entanglement almost ruined the family, and the present Earl continued to play carefully on that battlefield. Luckily, the Earl’s father had the Prince of Whales' ear, and the friendship carried over to his successor. This relationship, accompanied by the royal court's distractions and the House of Lords, taught the current Earl patience. He endured with military precision, and like most English gentlemen, he never revealed sentiment even in private with one exception―his son.

The Earl’s commitment to the crown did not always avail himself of his son. He spent months or years away from home, leaving the boy with his mother and later under the watchful eye of a trusted cousin. His father spent copious hours instructing the present Earl, and Burton Hummel did not have that luxury in the early years to do the same for his son. Reassignment back to England in eighteen hundred and eight perpetrated an emotional reunion with the young person who held all the Earl’s hopes.

The impending game teased everyone, and even though the firing of the first salvo had not yet occurred, the Earl of Amblesey demanded no mistakes. The ardent mediator put on beguiling airs before he stepped from the carriage where a functionary greeted him. While in transit, he spoke to his son, his ward and his equerry about his expectation for the evening. Lieutenant Wensworth, adorned in ceremonial scarlet, accompanied the Earl into the palace without announcement and remained a respectful distance. The junior officer spoke Russian, as did the Earl. Regardless of the tutelage father and equerry offered, Kurt struggled with the beautiful language while Lady Barry assimilated it with ease. Tonight, while the Earl did verbal battle, Lady Rachel Berry's need only do what all women of privilege did at balls―dance and listen to gossip. Kurt’s duty required him to ensure Lady Berry’s wellbeing.

Three years after the birth of his son, the Earl of Amblesey accepted a posting to South Africa when his regiment shipped out. Dreading living alone, Countess Elizabeth Hummel travelled to Naples to stay with her sister Mary and her husband, Count Fulgenzi. His family lived there for five years, and upon his return to England, the Earl journeyed to Italy for a sad reunion—his wife died four months beforehand. Sailing home with his eight-year-old son, the Earl set on the path of raising his son in the proper English manner. To his delight, Burton learned his son obtained an impressive fluency in Italian and French in his absence. However, he soon discovered that the study of languages bored his boy, who preferred to spend his time riding, enjoying music and dramatics. The Earl set limits on his son’s extracurricular activities, insisting Kurt learned about the estate, the economy and politics. At the time, Kurt wanted to please the man who now became the most important person in his life and did what his father instructed.

His son followed his father into the military, where privilege bought position and rank, but not expertise. The Earl could have purchased any rank for his son and settled on the title of Lieutenant. Lord Kurt Hummel did not subscribe to the windmills in the head1 as others did and won the rank of Captain on his merit and with the bravery befitting the name Hummel. A desire to return to active service would have prevented Lord Kurt from attending his father in Russia, yet, one did not deny the future king a request. The next day’s breakfast conversation saw the Earl consent his son’s request to have a friend and comrade-in-arms accompany him. Corporal Finn Hudson fought bravely in Spain, gaining him the friendship of the future Earl and travelled to Amblesey with his mother. Sergeant Nigel Hudson died in Spain, and the Earl offered his widow a position at the manor. Mrs. Carole Hudson proved very adept and quickly advanced to the head housekeeper's position when health issues forced the previous holder of the job into retirement.

Master Kurt Hummel earned the right to be called lord on his sixteenth birthday, and that summer, he experienced his introduction to society. Weeks of dinners, dances and gatherings familiarized him with several families who looked to elevate their status. Unfortunately, gossip in London circles insinuated the Earls’ son suffered from a lack of manliness due to the pitch of his voice. While the Earl could not be prouder of his son, and the chinwagging2 proved a hindrance. At great expense, the Earl employed a music couch to train his son to speak and sing at a lower pitch. Regardless of his stubborn resignation to the tampering of his natural linguistics, his singing talents amazed anyone lucky enough to hear him.

The blather about the Hummel boy only ignited a father's aspirations. In a world where obligation ruled everyone’s day-to-day life, responsibility required a wife of excellent breeding and stately dignity. Lady Marley Rose, the Count of Charmouth's sole child, pleased the Earl and became the first preference for his son's intended wife. Her sterling virtues spoke for themselves, and the Earl voiced his desire that his son place an offer before the Lady Rose upon their return to England. Once married, Kurt stood to inherit fifteen hundred acres and seventy thousand pounds upon her father's passing.

A father’s worries notwithstanding, the Earl of Amblesey watched his boy grow up to be a gentry cove3, very capable, handsome and not a nick ninny4. The limp he suffered after a French lance sliced in his thigh barely affected him now. The day they brought him home remained forever etched into the Earl’s mind. The abrupt appearance of a carriage in the drive sent a groom scrambling off into the countryside to find his Lordship. Racing home, the Earl discovered Lady Rachel hovering over Lord Kurt lying on a couch in the library with a sombre faced officer standing by the fire warming his hands. The physicians in Portugal did their utmost to prevent the young officer from losing his leg resulting in a significant scare on his inner thigh. Major Doctor Schuester, a friend of the family who served with the Earl in Africa, happened on Lord Kurt while touring the hospitals in the Plymouth region. Existing protocol determined the wounded officer should convalesce at a designated hospital. However, the skilled surgeon ordered Lord Walditch sent home. 

Lord Kurt Hummel recounted how Lieutenant Arthur Abrams charged the French cuirassier bent on rendering the life from the future Earl, resulting in his fellow officer breaking his back. Overwhelmed with the tale and his son's comrade-in-arms' bravery, the Earl immediately arranged for Captain Abrams’ transportation to Amblesey. Some weeks later, Lord Kurt Hummel knelt before his gracious monarch to receive the Knight Commander of the Order of Bath because his valiant actions turned the French right. While not knighted, Lieutenant Arthur Abrams, who found himself confined to a wheelchair, received a position of standing within the Earl's household and a pension for life.

The man, who celebrated his fiftieth birthday two years ago, drew in a deep breath to rectify his drifting composure. Aware the individuals close enough to see would seek to take advantage, and his Lordship shifted his eyes to the lovely young lady to his immediate left. Lady Rachel Berry, a lovely and spirited young lady, became the Earl's ward after her parents died shortly after bringing Kurt back to England. The same age as his son, she proved willful. The Earl tried to tame her enthusiasm, and while some advocated he sent Lady Rachel to a finishing school, which he refused did not. When she came of age, admirers gravitated to her not only for her voice and beauty but because her future husband stood to inherit one hundred twenty-five thousand pounds. For that reason, Burton Hummel made inquiries into each prospective suitor and tried his best not to break her father's deathbed confidence. Lord Berry wanted his only surviving child to marry for love in a world where duty dictated every aspect of life. For all practical purposes, it looked as if Lord Berry’s dying wish would come true. Marriage seemed the furthest matter on her mind, as she turned down prospects due to, as she stated, a lack of amicable familiarity.

With the Earl being a widower, Lady Rachel ruled the household like the little queen she could be. Her tirades often took on epic proportions, and Kurt intervened on the behest of the staff. The balls she arranged had a legendary flair all there own, and the first song after the evening meal belonged exclusively to her. While Rachel adhered to the Earl’s whims, Mrs. Hudson appeared to be the only person who could successfully reign in her eccentricities. She argued with Kurt at least once a week, and the Earl wondered if she did it to keep in practice. Even though Burt adored her, but he pitied a man who thought he could control her. Thankfully, her father provided her with an allowance for life regardless of marriage, meaning she may remain single without repercussions.

The Earl's proclamation that he would be departing for Russia in the fall without explaining why sent Rachel into scheming. Tired of her high ropes5, the Earl quickly shut her down. A determined Lady Berry stated her intention to see the ballet and experience the pomp of one of the greatest imperial cities in the civilized world. To her credit, she took it upon herself to find a Russian tutor to enhance her bid. Then, at the same ball where the Prince of Whales praised the Earl’s son, his Royal Highness danced with Lady Berry. He found her charming and attentive, and then she brought up Russia. Later, His Highness conveyed to the Earl the contents of a letter from Tsar Aleksandr to the King requesting immediate negotiations in Saint Petersburg. Then, the Prince mentioned how officers took their wives on campaign in the colonies and Europe. In one well-played swoop, a clever young lady tied the Earl’s hands.

They sailed from London on the man-of-war, HMS Saint Vincent, escorted by three frigates. Lady Rachel found the sea voyage exciting until the threat of attack by Danish gunboats became apparent. Lord Kurt patiently attended to her Ladyship’s needs as they walked the decks or played cards in the Earl's spacious cabin. The onerous thirteen-day trip included a stop in Stockholm, where a Swedish frigate joined the fleet for the voyage to Saint Petersburg. After a formal dockside ceremony, the representatives of His Imperial Majesty shepherded the British contingent to a small palace on the banks of the Neva River opposite the Peter and Paul Fortress. To appear unaggressive, the Earl restricted British crews to their ships anchored in the harbour. A retinue of eighteen, including a handful of marines, accompanied the Earl ashore.

A father glanced at his son, thinking how much Kurt looked like his mother when viewed on profile. A fond tug pitched the Earl’s heart because his deceased wife enjoyed balls, garden parties, and the court's machinations. Some considered Lady Elizabeth to be a spinster when the Earl first saw the twenty-four-year-old at a celebration at the Duke of Clarence’s home. They married a year later and, at twenty-six, she bore twins, a boy and a girl, who lived less than a year. Her third child now stood proudly next to his father, ready to face an uncertain evening. Kurt’s younger sisters died at birth, and the doctors told Elizabeth she would never have another child. Lady Elizabeth would be pleased to see the man her son became, and Lady Rachel may have become the daughter she waited.

Before departing for Spain to join Duke Wellington’s campaign in early eighteen eleven, a son asked his father why he did not remarry. He observed how his father appraised Mrs. Hudson whenever she entered the room, and while he did not mention it, Kurt did not want him to be alone for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, like an available and titled son, a widower became a commodity. Relatives and friends pressured the Earl to sire more children, but his son only wanted his father to be happy. Why not? Amblesey had an heir in Kurt’s cousin, Jesse Saint James and his three boys.

Earl Burton Hummel closed his eyes with the thought his son may perish in the continental-wide madness. His head drooped, and he saw a vision of his beloved Elizabeth. Thinking of his children's mother always calmed, and at this moment, the Earl felt a little rattled. The instant he stepped foot on Russian soil, he sensed the maleficence that fouled the land far to the south, leeching north. Judgement in the position of the past concerned the Earl because the cards rarely lied. The six of cups reversed, inhabiting his hopes haunted his aspirations, which lay in his son. The placing of the seven of swords in the immediate future chilled his heart. The influence of the ancient power of the ring stones tickled the Earl’s blood, as it had his father and his father’s father stretching beyond the beginning of the Earldom. Regardless of who read the tarot, the cards refused to reveal what a father desired―to what degree did the old ways caress the veins of his son.

The suspicions his son’s blood welcomed the ancient energies reminded the Earl he required observance. The prickly of the skin and the hair standing on the back of his neck warned of approaching gloom. Subtle within its obscurity, it moved somewhere like a snake slithering in the corners. The Earl first felt its maniacal touch in Portugal and doubted those below sensed its elaborate maneuvering and perception-altering whispers.

A soft pressure bathed the Earl’s forehead forecasting a modification to the game of chess playing in his mind. The pawn who pronounced the arrival of this evening's revered guests marked the opening move. The motions of his son and ward, who symbolized the white side king and queen’s guard, mixed with the assembly's actions, became gestures on the board. The hole created allowed the white king’s bishop, represented by the Earl, to slide out onto the board embodied by the stair’s railing. The match paused as if someone considered the situation permitting the Earl his contemplations. Finally, the defining instrument, the black emperor's side knight, leapt over a row of pawns revealing itself. In reality, the nobles peeled away with bows and curtseys, opening an avenue. The Earl took it as his queue and started down the stairs to greet His Imperial Highness Grand Duke Konstantin Pavlovich Romanov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Windmills of the head – foolish projects or foolish notions.  
> 2 Chinwagging – having a frivolous conversation, idle chatting.  
> 3 Gentry cove – a gentleman  
> 4 Nick ninny – simpleton  
> 5 High ropes – to be in a passion or mood


	3. Kamennoostrovskiy - Obligations

**18 July 1812**

“Frivolity or exasperating. Either way, I will tell you this shall be illuminating,” Prince Aleksandr Petrov’s smirk set the mood for his compatriots. Standing tall at five foot nine inches in his black and silver uniform of an artillery officer, the pudgy, middle-aged man stroked his well-trimmed beard. Decorations awarded to him due to his born noble and for acts of bravery sparkled hung on the right side of the stomach and his chest. Ropes of thin, greying hair held down by pomade barely hid the lack of hair on the top of his head.

“I prey this affair is more interesting than the Winter Palace,” Count Vadim Onipchenko commented after shipping his tiny glass of vodka. The solidly built man in the infantry officer’s uniform attached himself to Prince Petrov even though they had not arrived together.

Prince Vladimir Chernyavsky held his hands behind his back as he watched the people around seeking intrigues. The man wore a dark-brown formal coat trimmed in gold adorned with a cream coloured cravat with beige pants with shiny metals on his chest. In a low deep, voice, he proclaimed, “His Imperial Majesty’s indulgences encouraged difficulties in our endeavour. I foresee a bad bargain1, and some might reconsider their placements.”

The portly fellow downed the remainder of his small glass of vodka and exhaled. A pleasant little grin etched lines in his cheeks, and he quietly commented, “If some abandon the enterprise, a fortuitous benefit may result. What do you think, Your Imperial Highness?”

Less than enthusiastic with his company, Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov of the House of Romanov, son of the recently deceased Grand Duke Deyven Pavlovich Anderov, and Grand Duchess Pamila Sofia, peevishly waited. His state of dress dismayed him because black should be the evening's colour as custom demanded. His uncle insisted Bleyn break with mourning traditions and have a new uniform explicitly made for this occasion resulted in a vigorous argument. The soft cream-white fabric trimmed with silver brocade in a cavalry officer's fashion impeccably fit his compact and muscular frame. His mother soothed her son’s anger and later implored him to represent the family with honour. After the evening meal, she helped her son prepare by affixing his medals to his uniform. At twenty-one years of age, Bleyn saw combat against the Turks, gaining him the Order of Saint Stanislaus and later the Order of Saint George. Tsar Aleksandr presented him with the order of Saint Andrew when his Imperial Majesty recognized his elevation of status. Of the three orders, Bleyn wore the two won for service to with pride because it proved his worth. The third only reminded him of the never-ending responsibility sapping his life.

In the first half of eighteen hundred and twelve, peace negotiations with the Turkish meant the Caucasus remained relatively calm. Bleyn’s father, Grand Duke Deyven Pavlovich Anderov Romanov, the representative of his bother, the Tsar, found himself drawn into an ambush. The fight started with confusion, and then the officers of his escort rallied the troops. Regrettably, Bleyn’s father suffered a wound and died seven weeks ago. Three weeks later, Bleyn’s older brother, Kirill Deyvenevich, fell in an engagement with the French outside Djunaszev. The largely forgotten spare inherited the title and its responsibilities.

The kind-hearted young Grand Duke suffered a demoralizing lack of enthusiasm for this evening. Two of the men occupying his time reminded His Imperial Highness did not always see eye to eye with his uncle Grand Duke Konstantin. On several occasions, Bleyn pointed out he reached a suitable age and served this uncle, the Tsar, in combat. He pressed his lofty uncle to treat him like a man, and then Konstantin pointed out Bleyn’s inexperience. That led to further quarrels, and in the end, Grand Duke Bleyn acquiesce to the realm’s senior statemen.

This morning he endured hours of boring conversation from one of his uncle’s functionaries who tried to explain the family exploits. Grand Duke Konstantin Pavlovich and Grand Duke Deyven Pavlovich Anderov profited greatly from their industrious manoeuvrings. The brothers owned property in and surrounding Saint Petersburg and Moscow plus vast tracks of farmland elsewhere. Their international holdings, including ventures in China, South-East Asia, Africa, and North America, made them two of them among Russia's richest men. Both benefitted from the war in Europe and the American slave trade. Father and uncle often entertained French interests and spoke of Napoleon in complementary tones. Conspiracy played out around Konstantin, and he had no idea if his uncle participated. The idea appeared unbelievable until his Imperial Majesty announced the pending arrival of envoys from Great Britain and Sweden. That night Bleyn noticed the desperation on Grand Duke Konstantin’s face.

He felt increasingly trapped by the dozens of ledgers and piles of documented cluttered a lounge at the Anichkov Palace. He hopeless poured over the preposterous pile attempting to make head or tails of the mess. He tried to engage his mother, yet her misery prevented her from concentrating for any great time. Konstantin pressed that issues needed to be quickly settled, and thinking his uncle protected his affairs, Bleyn signed many papers he did not understand.

The handsome and often cautious Bleyn grew waspish with his uncle’s condescending and increasingly disagreeable mannerisms. Konstantin insisted Bleyn arrive half an hour early, and then he waited like everyone else. Increasingly impatient with the manner of his treatment, Bleyn tempered his mood with wine. For a man how drank sparingly, the bottom of his second glass stared the Grand Duke in the face. He hoped the wine's fragrance would overpower the perfume one of the men his uncle sent to ensure his attendance this evening. They hovered uneasily close, and their incipient whispering held both suckling praise and disturbing remorse. He wiggled his lips back and forth and deposited the glass on the tray of a passing footman and asked for another.

The nattering of the those surrounding him defused in the fussiness affecting his thoughts. Someone spoke of the advancing French, and someone else complained about the price of silks from Italy. It all seemed inconsequential at the moment, even though Bleyn understood the dilemmas of a prosperous life. The hall he stood in, and the building it attached to had been build to impress. Since his sixteenth birthday, he had entered many of the grand ballrooms throughout the city and surrounding estates. Presently, he resided in a parlour with several other people off the ballroom.

Amber-brown eyes glazed down at his empty hand and then to the approaching footman with a silver tray. Taking up the goblet offered to him, the Grand Duke took a sip. The warmth of the wine played on his emotions, and he found himself staring at the red liquid he held. One more glass and he could easily make a fool of himself. With all her heart, he wanted to see his mother through this period of loss and come to an understanding with his conflicting emotions. First, her two daughters died within a year of their births, and the cruelty of war took her husband and eldest son. The Grand Duchess Pamela could not claim to have a happy life as her husband disdained her in private and neglected her socially. Much to his discontentment, Bleyn knew of his father’s many dalliances with women of less than noble birth. In the eyes of a spare son, his father’s actions remained reprehensible even after death.

His father’s disinterest in Bleyn did not mean the growing boy with loose curls and soft eyes did not have duties. While Kirill learned how to run the estate, and Bleyn learned about farming. It proved a rude awakening, but thankfully it allowed him the freedom to remove himself from his father’s presence. Bleyn tolerated and even feared his father and, at times, got along with his brother. Kirill could do no wrong. After all, he grew to be a tall man with handsome features and a keen eye for business.

On the other hand, his father considered Bleyn to be dandy prat2 and sickly because of his short stature and enjoyment of painting, music, and literature. The younger son did excel in horse riding and often won over his brother at the hazardous cross-country races. Kirill usually became enraged, and Bleyn would seek safety from his brother’s wrath. To keep out of the way, he took up wandering the outlying areas of the estate, often with a book, just to avoid any unpleasantness. One day he happened upon an old woman carrying a burdensome load, and he helped her. Three months ago, the ageing strannik3 told the spare that his future lay close at hand. While Bleyn did not fully prescribe the peculiarities described by cards and bones, he did not entirely discount it. Perhaps the novelty kept him enthralled, or maybe he liked the idea someone could see beyond the veil into the improbable. Perhaps, it gave him another place to hide?

His father ignored his son in private and belittled him in public, but he did not become belligerent until his eighth birthday. If not for the lad’s disposition as a jolly dog4, he would have sunk into himself and dispaired. Instead, he learned to use his inventive mind to find means of expressing himself. Three months before his sixteenth birthday, his father tried to make his spare a man, and uncle Konstantin started to suggest suitable wives. The two arranged an introduction to society and a showcase of eligible daughters of supportive noblemen. Shortly before his seventeenth birthday, he entered military service at his father’s insistence. A royal birth had its advantages, and the young man found himself stationed with the Imperial Guards Calvary in a junior position to its commander. Military serve opened his Bleyn’s eyes to a larger world, and he slowly. Slowly Bleyn started to realize how manipulative his uncle could be and how his father listened.

The reallocating of a heel enabled Bleyn to turn, and at the same time, a finger dug into the stiff collar cutting into his neck. He swirled the clear fluid in the fine cut crystal goblet he held, permitting the sweet and fruity aroma to assault his nostrils. His commanding officer in Grozny widely travelled Europe in his youth, acquiring a taste for fine wines. Upon returning to the family’s sprawling estate of Anderovska near Alexandrovskaya, Bleyn employed himself in the enterprise of importing wines. His father ridiculed his son and later took the portion of the profits to please his whims.

The Grand Duke wished he could act on his whim to walk out into the gardens and disappear. The wine and the company worked against him. A haunting sensation from the past rose in Bleyn, reminding him of the embarrassment after his father and uncle snubbed him at events hosted at Anderovska. While his upbringing taught him what he needed to know about polite society, its tediums and how to conform. That did not mean he felt comfortable.

The young man rolled his eyes and looked out through the arch into the crowded ballroom spying someone he wished to entertain. Sipping his wine, Bleyn nonchalantly commented, “The path set before us may be laborious, gentlemen.”

“One would ascertain you see no gain in this enterprise?” Prince Aleksandr mocked.

One of the Grand Duke’s eyebrows shot up, and then they pressed together as if to show his disapproval. “Assisting my mother would be time more pleasantly spent.”

“The calamity which had befallen your house was unfortunate, Your Imperial Highness,” Prince Vladimir grovelled. “Undoubtedly―”

“Undoubtedly?” the Grand Duke snarled, and then he dismissed it all with a wave of his hand. With care, he deposited the glass on a nearby sideboard and bluntly stated, “I must away. I see Her Highness, Princess Natalya is unattended, and frankly, you bore me.”

The Grand Duke did not provide the Princes with the opportunity to rebut and purposely strolled across the grand room. Misery lingered behind him, and the hope of an enchanting evening lay ahead. Diverse ladies and gentlemen genuflected themselves as Bleyn strode toward a vision in white silk. Her Highness never failed to be charming, witty, and a true beauty and the gaggle of young noblemen circulating around her proclaimed her a most eligible gem. Her mother, who sat close by surrounded by several married nobles, spared no expense for tonight. The sparkling diamonds and emeralds adorning the lovely Princess appeared new, and Bleyn recognized her terra from past events. The Grand Duke noted how the shimmering green stones perfectly matched her eyes, and he sighed. Should he be free, he would consider her virtues with greater care. 

The ladies curtseyed, and the Grand Duke returned the gesture with an elegant bow directed at Her Highness. The princess’ mother stirred from her feigned attentiveness to survey a situation that now deserved her full consideration. A young and handsome Grand Duke paying homage to her daughter presented irresistible opportunities. The marriage of her daughter to the Grand Duke would certainly elevate her family, but at what cost. Perhaps the bride of a large land grant might sway Grand Duke Konstantin's favour.

Though not a tall man, Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov made up for his stature with gorgeous looks, a strong frame, charm, and an Imperial title. His presence offered a challenge to the various suitors wishing to make her acquaintance. Of course, she knew all these men, and with each ball, the game played itself out with renewed vigour. Everyone anticipated the Grand Duke would take her gloved hand and place a gentle kiss upon it. To add excitement, Bleyn allowed his lips to linger against the white cloth long enough for the young man to inhale her enticing perfume twice. The esteem he offered Her Highness may create gossip, and she understood his intent. The two genuinely admired each other in the friendliest manner.

“Salutations, Princess Natalya **,” t** he Grand Duke greeted her with sweet tones before turning to the other ladies, “Princess Dina, Countess Taisia, Countess **Y** elena, it is an honour. Ladies, your presence brightens this dull occasion.”

The ladies blushed, and Princess Natalya quietly said, “Your Imperial Highness, I am privileged by your kind greeting this evening. It has been far too long since we last conversed.”

“Would it be presumptuous of me, Princess Natalya, to request your favour for a dance,” the Grand Duke’s offered a tiny smile.

The Princess managed a demure blush and then softly replied with a flicker of an eyebrow, “I would have been disappointed if you had not asked, Your Imperial Highness.”

“The honour is mine, Your Highness,” Bleyn inclined his head and felt the requirement of propriety fulfilled. “Perhaps you can save two spaces in the middle of the first set. I beg forgiveness for the unseemly delay, for I must attend to my uncle when he finally makes his appearance.”

“I would be honoured, Your Imperial Highness,” the Princess smiled.

An honest smile lifted Bleyn’s spirits, and he quietly remarked, “The thought of dancing with Her Highness will brighten my melancholy.”

The Princess dipped into a short curtsey signifying her acceptance of the agreement, and Bleyn reciprocated by inclining his head. He offered another smile know that everyone in the room knew Grand Duke Konstantin pressed Bleyn to settle his affections elsewhere. Social niceties required the Grand Duke to save most of his dances for Princes Katrina Sebasyova, the eldest child of Prince Sebast'ya Ivanovich. Tonight would be the first time, since the death of Grand Duke Deyven Pavlovich Anderov and Grand Duke Kirill Deyvenevich, that Bleyn would be in her presence. Perhaps there lies the reason for the extravagant new uniform.

“I understand you were present when His Imperial Highness’ prestigious guest presented himself to his Imperial Majesty. Did you, by chance meet, his Excellency?” Countess **Y** elena inquired. Though not as handsome as Princess Natalya, the countess stuck a fanciful pose in a long gown cut in the French fashion.

“I dare say, Your Serenity, I have not had the privilege,” Grand Duke Bleyn politely replied, though he dared not speak his true thoughts.

“It is true the envoy travels with his son and a British woman of some breeding?” Princess Dina inquired with subdued volume.

“I believe it is true, Your Highness.” The Grand Duke inclined his head. “I have not looked upon them because I felt no such inclination.”

“Your Imperial Highness, our words weigh on you,” Princess Natalya said with sincere softness in her tone. “I am amiss for not offering my condolences to you and the Grand Duchess.”

“And no proper moment to mourn,” Bleyn heard the Countess Taisia scandalously whisper to Countess Yelena, who stood in close proximity.

Always the gentleman, Bleyn ignored the Countess’ inappropriate words because he knew them to be true **.** He understood the subtle indiscretions of the game―a flutter of an eyelid, flush of the cheek or a pleasant smile. Decency judged the subtleties as essential even though he did not think it useful. His father and brother played at such intrigues and often enjoyed the spoils of their exploits. The youngest son of a debauched man grew up to considered modesty, dignity, and the sanctity of the body's personal affairs as private. Regardless of his age and the spoils of rank, he saved himself for his holy anointed wedding night. He once considered the priesthood, yet, Grand Duke Bleyn enjoyed his luxuries.

A hush fell over the room, and the Grand Duke looked up. Grand Duke Konstantin Pavlovich perched himself at the top of the stairs with his wife Grand Duchess Anna Feodorovna on his arm. To his left stood Prince Sebast’ya Ivanovish, his wife Princess Elena Pavlovna and their eldest daughter, the Princess Katrina Sasayova. The gentlemen wore crisp military uniform suitable to their ranks adorned with honours bestowed by a grateful Tsar, past and present. The light streaming through the windows danced on shimmering gowns and magnificent jewelry.

The assemblage turned to face the grand staircase and politely applauded their gracious host. With his head held high, Grand Duke Konstantin made his way down to the ballroom. Great lords bowed low, and noblewomen sank into deep curtsies as they ingratiated themselves. The sight of the aged Dowager Grand Duchess Antoniya Petrovna bending the knee to his uncle seemed improper in excess. Of the five boys born to Tsar Paul, Aleksandr gained the throne. Konstantin, born thirty minutes before his twin Deyven, took the second spot, then Nicholas and finally, Michael. Bleyn had hoped to see Nicholas tonight because the two greatly favoured each other.

Grand Duke Bleyn made polite excuses to the ladies and departed with a bow. As he neared the base of the stairs, he slowed when he saw the flock of toadies5 crowding around his uncle. Bleyn stopped when he noticed Major General Ivan Shevich, commander of the First Brigade of the First Cuirassier Division. The proud Major General, his chest glistened with medals, leaned close to his host and imparted a quiet remark. The expression on his uncle’s face sent a chill down Bleyn’s back.

Grand Duke Konstantin’s eyes looked beyond the Major General, and he made a gesture that made Grand Duke Bleyn bristle. Akin to the summons of a servant, the young noble remained still and drew in a deep breath. Konstantin returned a look meaning, hurry up, and Bleyn procrastinated. His father's words echoed in his Bleyn’s mind telling him one day he might amount to something and the words acted to strengthen Bleyn’s resolve. Five weeks past, he would have bowed to show his obeisance to his uncle, but on this day, he settled on a polite nod. He would not disgrace himself in the manner of the dowager Grand Duchess.

“Ah, there you are, nephew,” His Imperial Highness Grand Duke Konstantin offered greetings with a slight edge to his tone those about him would notice.

“Uncle. Your Imperial Highness honours me with the invitation this festive evening.” Grand Duke Bleyn dryly responded. He hastily turned and inclined his head to his aunt by marriage as decency detected when in the presence of a lady. “Your Imperial Highness, Grand Duchess Anna Feodorovna, greetings aunt.”

“May I offer my condolences, Your Imperial Highness,” Grand Duchess Anna’s eyes shined with genuine sadness. “How fairs, your mother, the Dowager Grand Duchess Pamela?”

“Tolerable, Your Imperial Highness.” Bleyn resented at the use of the extended title, as correct as it might be. However, her words moved him, and he managed a small smile to hide his dreary mood. “The loss of my father and brother has been a terrible shock, and I thank you for your kind words. They warm my heart. My mother would enjoy a visit, Your Imperial Highness. She would relish hearing about your trip.”

“My brother’s death poses issues that need to be resolved, nephew,” Konstantin sternly stated. To prevent his wife from responding, he turned toward a gushing Count urging his wife to follow. 

The Grand Duchess squeezed her nephew’s forearm and followed her husband. Grand Duke Bleyn’s eyes trailed along with a fond twinkle in his heavy heart. His aunt’s words may have come from a place of valid concern, but Bleyn did not fool himself. Grand Duchess Anna Feodorovna employed her power with ruthless efficiency, and everyone in this room understood this.

He closed his eyes for a second when Bleyn felt his stomach stir. He did not need to see or catch the scent of his perfume to know of the presence of a man he would rather avoid. Sadly Prince Sebast'ya Ivanovich followed in the Grand Duke Konstantin like a lick spittle6. For some unexplainable reason, a prick behind the ear or tingling up the skelp announced irritating man’s close vicinity. Maybe it had to do with the fact the narrow-faced schemer used his proximity to Grand Duke Konstantin to full advantage. In part, it involved the Prince’s constant efforts to contrive instances where his beautiful eldest daughter and Bleyn may meet. Other instanced proved less admirable. On visits to Anderovska, the Prince boasted of his womanizing with his father and brother. His depravities included the abuse of boys, including a nine-year-old Bleyn. The thankful appearance of his father’s Master of Horse allowed the young lord the opportunity to escape with his dignity and virtue intact. No one would believe him if Bleyn denounced the Prince; thus, he contrived never to be alone in the same room with the goat7 again.

The Prince hesitated in offering a stiff bow even when his daughter curtseyed. In this setting, he had the Prince at a distinct advantage, which the Grand Duke considered monopolizing on. Luckily for the Prince, Bleyn’s nature did not lean toward wickedness, even though the thought of tormenting the man amused him. Embarrassing the arrogance Prince in public verged on the extreme, Bleyn would never expose the Princess to such unkindness.

In stark contrast to her father, Her Highness, Princess Katrina Sebasyova, reminded Bleyn of the splendour of Aphrodite. Standing tall in a stunning pale green, almost cream colour, gown with a lace overlay embroidered with pearls. A brilliant diamond tiara held the long locks of her lustrous blond hair styled upon her head in the latest fashion. Her glow of innocence disguised an agile mind and innocent virtue. The Princess’ beguiling charms shown like a bright light next to the darkness of her father's cruel streak. During the fighting in the Caucasus, his zeal in battle regularly demanded the killing of prisoners and villages burning. On visits to Anderovska, a younger Bleyn witnessed the Prince whipping a servant over something a petty as mud on his shoes. If Bleyn adhered to rumour, the Prince precipitated his wife’s death three winters past. His present and younger wife recently bestowed the Prince with his only son out of five children.

After silently greeting Prince Sebast’ya with a curt nod, and then Bleyn inclined his head to the Prince’s wife. “Princess Elena, it is a pleasure to greet you again. I do hope you will find this evening to your liking.”

“Festivities create entertainments of their own, Your Imperial Highness,” Princess Elena replied in a soft voice.

Bleyn pitted the sixteen-year-old, but he did not let it show as he bowed to Princess Katrina and kissed her hand. When he straightened up, he found the Prince smirking at him. Prince Sebast’ya constant watch on his daughter’s reaction when in the proximity to Grand Duke Bleyn had not gone unnoticed over the past seven months. He stood there in his dark green uniform adorned in lavish brocades and medals for his bravery and savagery with narrowed eyes. A shiver ran up his back, and a tiny sigh escaped the Grand Duke Bleyn’s throat giving away his sullen mood.

Leaning closer, Princess Katrina softly said, “I fear your heart is elsewhere this evening, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness. I do not intend to be unattentive,” Bleyn replied with a small smile.

“No, Your Imperial Highness, you are most attentive. I must offer my apologies, for I have yet to offer my condolences.” Princess Katrina’s downcast eyes transmitted her mortification. “Please express my wishes to the Dowager Grand Duchess.”

A strange feeling passed up the Grand Duke back as someone walked over his grave, and he resisted the desire to place the Princess between himself and her father. Over the last dozen years, the man’s nearness caused his skin to crawl the most disturbing manner. His head drooped, and he managed a small smile. “Thank you, Your Highness. It is only your presence, which enables me to sustain some measure of decorum.”

The blush rising in the Princess’ cheeks did not go unnoticed by her father. Mischievous eyes feel on Bleyn, who now found himself seeking a means of escape, he could never make.

“My mother and I will be departing for Anderovska after as soon as we are able.” Grand Duke Bleyn commented as he held out his arm to the Princess signalling, she would be well protected.

“I remember my one stay with great fondness, Your Imperial Highness,” the Princess laid her hand on the arm, and the two started to walk. “The wind off the sea disrupted the heat, making horse riding bearable.”

“Your father was the most gracious hosts, Your Imperial Highness,” Prince Sebast’ya stated as she walked with his wife, steering the young couple toward their host. “Your uncle has invited me to Anderovska after the internment.”

“Most gracious of him.” It took all of Grand Duke Bleyn willpower to retrain his anger. The bars closed around him, but he found strength in the lovely lady next to him. “It is my hope, Your Highness will be in attendance.”

Before the Princess could speak, her father clearly stated, “Indeed, Your Imperial Highness. Let me remind you, there are matters―”

A foot loudly stuck the floor, and Grand Duke Bleyn turned his head to gaze at the Princess. In an unmistakable tone, he snapped, “You remind me!”

Prince Sebast’ya’s eyes narrowed, and he said in a demanding tone, “Your Imperial Highness, must―”

“Must! You―” The loud rapping of a wood rod on marble echoed through the hall, saved the incensed Grand Duke Bleyn form issuing a stern rebuke. Ignoring the annoying man proved easy when Bleyn’s eyes turned upward to where a bald man in a bright red uniform stood between a woman and a young man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Bad bargain – One of his majesty’s bad bargains.  
> 2 Dandy prat – An insignificant or trifling fellow.  
> 3 Strannik – A religious pilgrim in Russia, Sometimes associated with faith healing, astrology, tarot, predictions and soothsaying. May be followers of the Russian Orthodox Church or older paganistic practices.  
> 4 Jolly dog – a merry, facetious fellow’ bon vivant  
> 5 Toadies – sycophants, bootlickers.  
> 6 Lick spittle – talebearer or parasite.  
> 7 Goat – lascivious or lewd person
> 
> The titles of Russian royalty and nobility differ from England. In 1812 Russian royalty and nobility styled themselves as follows: 
> 
> Tsar – Emperor of Russia
> 
> Tsaritsa or Tsarina – Female ruler of Russia or the title of a Tsar’s wife. 
> 
> Tsarevich – a title given to Tsars’ male heir.
> 
> Tsarevna – a title given to the wife of a Tsarevich.
> 
> Grand Duke – (May also be referred to as Grand Prince) – this title denotes a member of the Imperial Family, including sons and grandsons (through male lines) of the Tsar. 
> 
> Grand Duchess – (May also be referred to as Grand Princess) – the title denotes the consort of a grand duke or the daughters and paternal granddaughters of Tsars.
> 
> Prince or Princess – the children and grandchildren of the Grand Dukes, may also be styled as Prince or Princess. Generally, the title denotes the highest ranks of non-royal nobility. 
> 
> Count or Countess – second level of non-royal nobility.
> 
> Baron or Baroness – third level of non-royal nobility


	4. Kamennoostrovsky – Felicitations

**18 July 1812**

A suddenly enthusiastic Bleyn poked his head around Princess Katrina without disturbing her. The youthful man’s knees shook when he caught sight of the dusty blue and dark green uniform at the top of the stairs. Attributing it to the wine he ingested, the much-needed distraction tugged him from his Friday-faced1 mood. The tingling in the soles of his feet rolled up his legs and along his spine, causing him to blink. His chest squeezed, and the pounding of his heart made it challenging to breathe. The heat leeching up the Grand Duke’s neck made him feel childishly awkward, forcing him to turn ever so slightly. The longer he stared, the more he heard the whispering of an old woman drawing his desire for an early retreat from him.

Then he noticed his uncle Konstantin’s eyebrows snap up, and then he requested something of Major General Shevich and Prince Sebast'ya, who both chuckled. Bleyn knew the look on the Prince’s face, and suspicions immediately conjured up an image of machinations boarding on the macabre. The more the politically uncommitted Grand Duke thought about it, the conflict with Great Britain no longer made sense. Word reached Saint Petersburg this morning that two days past, the Grande Armée neared Vilna and would press on to Sventsiani. Bleyn found it hard to believe the Russian army could not slow the French assault. Some said the war with the Turks pulled much of the army out of position, and considering recent events, Bleyn found himself agreeing.

The words spoken by others intruded, and Bleyn considered what others speculated. At close quarters, the Earl of Amblesey appeared as any person of status and station. The way he held himself spoke of military schooling and the poise of his rounded features hinted at a man who understood the workings of royal courts. The Earl appeared to be in his late fourties and reasonably fit compared to nobles of a similar age Bleyn knew. Other than a flash of emotion shortly after the announcement, his face revealed little. The medals adorning his bright uniform told a tale and showed King George’s regard for the Earl.

His uncle’s maneuvering granted his nephew a clear view of Lady Rachel Berry. Though not as handsome as Princess Katrina, Lady Berry processed a striking appearance and poise. An elegant and somewhat understated diamond tiara held long strands of lustrous dark hair in place and allowed several artfully coiled locks to fall to the left to frame her squared jaw. Her luxurious gown differed from the French style worn by most ladies of the Imperial court in a most subtle manner. Some of the ladies, standing away from Grand Duke Konstantin, commented favourably on Lady Berry’s choice for a pale green-gold gown coupled with a darker green lace shawl. Unlike most ladies present, Lady Berry wore a simple golden chain about her neck bearing a single large diamond and matching earrings.

The moment the Earl of Amblesey reached the bottom of the stairs, Grand Duke Konstantin stepped forward with a bright smile. Three steps later, the envoy bowed, and the intrigues for the evening commenced in earnest. Princess Katrina stepped to her left, enticing Bleyn to do the same in fear he might stand on her lacy cream stole looped off her arms hanging dangerously close to the floor. With his view no longer obstructed by an intolerable man who guarded the Princess, Grand Duke Bleyn tried to hide the lopsided grin his mother told him made women stumble.

The young adults accompanied the British envoy halted when the two great people met. Lord Hummel and Lady Berry stood two steps up from where former enemies politely played the game. From Bleyn’s perspective, the placement of the two young guests appeared purposeful. The agility of the young Grand Duke’s mind recognized how the Earl manufactured the current situation. Though they may not be aware, Lord Hummel and Lady Berry stood there as a diversion for the court.

An observer took full advantage of the changing situation to permit himself a closer inspection of the young man introduced as Lord Kurt Hummel, Baron of Walditch. While similar to many uniforms wore this evening, the attire he wore hinted at the athletic body of a man who rode horses. The angles of Lord Hummel’s face attracted and suggested he may be the same age as the observer. The layers of blue brilliance of his Lordship’s eyes seduced, and the barely noticeable limp offered a story the Grand Duke felt eager to hear.

“Welcome to Kamennoostrovsky Palace, Your Excellency,” Grand Duke Konstantin Pavlovich Romanov stated in English. He held his head high and kept his back straight, striking an impressive pose.

“Felicitations and thank you, Your Imperial Highness,” The Earl of Amblesey stated in the language chosen by his host. “I am honoured to present his Majesty’s salutations to you and your house.”

“His Majesty is most kind,” Grand Duke Konstantin diction presented minor issues. “Please extend the friendship of the Russian people to His Majesty.”

“His Majesty values the people of Russia, Your Imperial Highness. Friendship between Imperial Russia and Great Britain would be advantageous for both nations,” the Earl boldly stated.

The Grand Duke’s eyes twitched, and looked to the stunning beauty to his left. In a proud voice, he said, “Your Excellency, may I present, my wife, Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Anna Feodorovna.”

Lord Kurt’s right eyebrow trembled as if he had detected something, and Bleyn immediately modified his gaze. A rush of excitement shook Bleyn, reminding him of an occurrence from his past that left him feeling warm and cold. Warm, because it opened his eyes to a part of him he never explored and cold, for the way it ended. Propriety demanded he did not look upon the young British Lord longer than what would be considered seemly, but the new Grand Duke found it difficult. A strange sensation encapsulating his heart reminded him of heavy drapes peeled back to expose a bright new day. The breath hitched in Bleyn’s throat, and he suddenly looked away.

Lord Walditch disliked the idea of standing like some actor one stage, and then something occurred to him―fathers' cunning calculation afforded then an opportunity. From where he stood, Kurt skillfully surveyed the reactions of the nobles arrayed around the ornate chamber. Nearness to Grand Duke Konstantin symbolized the importance of those with whom his father would battle this evening. The grand lady to the Grand Duke’s right offered a threat because Kurt noticed her eyes reacted contrary to her jovial appearance. The pudgy uniformed man, adorned with an abundance of honours, leaning close to the Grand Duke’s ear, conjured up visions of complicity and subversion. A tall, lean man orbited the Grand Duke sent an icy shiver up Kurt’s back. This narrow-faced man examined his father with the sharp eyes of a man bent on raising some kind of breeze2. When the opportunity presented itself, Kurt would speak to Lieutenant Wensworth, who stood a few steps back observing. The ceremonial role the Lieutenant performed this evening had no ranking and would prevent him from participating in the festivities.

The stunning blond standing beside the haughty man hovering close on the Grand Duke’s elbow caught Kurt’s consideration. His eyes lingered for a moment and then skimmed past her to find black shoes, creamy white pants, and a matching jacket with silver braid and red shoulder epaulets. Wavy locks of hair played over the ear, inviting speculation. Baron Walditch found himself holding his breath, and his body pulsed as if the soul searched for something familiar and comforting. The sensation prickled his nerves, and then the short man’s head moved. Heat boiled up in his body, leaving the Baron feeling mysteriously complete. In that instant, Kurt felt as if he gazed at someone he knew and had not seen in a very long-time. The sensation almost overwhelmed him, leaving Kurt feeling faintly light-headed.

The British Captain breathed in to steady himself, and he noticed the object of his interest gazed elsewhere. His brows narrowed when he saw the compact man’s emotions shift as if he struggled to retain control. A head of curls drooped, and Kurt felt a sharpness in his chest because the man he viewed passed a finger under his eye as if wicking moisture away. The sight conjured up unwanted memories from Spain, and Kurt blinked. Horrific training accidents hardened his nerves and stomach to the sight of blood, but he still turned his stomach. Nothing prepared him for the sight of numerous male bodies piled in one street as if someone lined them up and shot them. Then it became apparent the former occupiers took liberties with the woman regardless of their age. That night Kurt happened upon a solder by the name of Hudson. The tall, solidly built, and sickly-looking man leaned against a stonewall nursing a bottle of wine. The private barely reacted to the officer, and Kurt considered chastising him until he recognized the deep sorrow on his face. Lieutenant Hummel bonded with the man who spent his day digging graves as they shared the bottle and talked about home.

Kurt’s eyes flickered, and his head moved ever so slightly to see a flash of rich amber-brown. A quiver through Kurt and he found himself offering the tiniest grin in return. The muscle housed in the centre of his chest thumped, and then his father took the Grand Duchess’s hand with a small display of emotion. Kurt watched the elegant woman as the Earl of Amblesey gently kissed the gloved hand just above the knuckles. When he rose, the two exchanged pleasantries.

“I am honoured to make you acquaintance, Your Imperial Highness. I look forward to creating lasting friendships while in Russia,” the Earl of Amblesey spoke Russian at a marginally louder volume.

The Grand Duchess politely smiled and offered a gentle reply in the native language, “Friendship enables us to understand each other, Your Excellency

The Earl inclined his head and smiled at the Grand Duchess before asking what he knew he must, “If it is not impertinent of me, Your Imperial Highness, may I request a dance?”

“I would be honoured, Your Excellency.” The Grand Duchess answered in flawless French followed by a charming little grin many in the court would not miss.

“I will be at your disposal, Your Imperial Highness,” the Earl replied in impeccable French.

Here lay the opening shots of the real battle to be fought this evening. The Grand Duchess tried to counter his father’s transferal to Russian and perhaps offer some humiliation. The arena for the next phase of this evening's plotting concerned Kurt because his father did not excel on the dance floor. As a child, he recalled his mother commented to her lady friends pertaining to her husband’s need to practice.

The Grand Duke said to the Earl in exceptional French, “I travelled to England in eighteen hundred and four as a guest of the Duke of Beaufort. It is a lovely nation, my Lord Earl. I enjoyed fox hunting and the artful landscaping of the estates I visited.”

“It is a grand nation, filled with beauty and lavish history, like Russia.,” Earl of Amblesey inclined his head with a gentle smile, and then he half turned. Glancing to the stairs, he nodded and then spoke in the language of his host’s choosing, “Your Imperial Highnesses, may I present, my son, Lord Kurt Hummel, Baron of Walditch and Captain in his Majesties Fifth Dragoon Guard.”

Grand Duke Konstantine offered a small grin and continued in French, “Welcome, Your Lordship. Marshal Auguste De Marmont informed me of your detachments exploits. Most impressive.”

Two young men noted the strike at the young British Lord from different perspectives. The man with strands of curls looked concerned, and the one on the stairs trying not to let his emotions show. Tsar Aleksandr would have confided with his advisors over the proposal of a confederation against France involving Sweden and Great Britain. He would not have known who King George sent to negotiate until the fleet arrived in the port. His Imperial Highness moved quickly to impress and destabilize the Earl, who recognized this skirmish would be won or lost on the reply. 

Lord Walditch calmly stepped down from the stairs and politely bowed. When he righted his posture, the Lord responded in excellent French complete with a soft Parisian accent, “Marshal De Mormont’s reputation must be admired, Your Imperial Highness. His skill on the battlefield speaks of his courage and his tactical dexterity. He offered many surprises.”

Warmth rose in Grand Duke Bleyn’s chest with the sound of Lord Kurt’s voice. The pitch echoed in his heart as if he knew on some intimate level. The thought of their voices beautifully harmonized in a duet made him happy, but then he frowned―the whispering of others annoyingly feminizing Baron Walditch.

With a brief incline of his head and a gentle smile, the Earl indicated the young woman standing apart from his son, “Your Imperial Highnesses, may I also, present, my ward, the Lady Rachel Berry.”

Before the arrival of Grand Duke Konstantin, Bleyn overheard some of the ladies nattering about Lady Berry’s presentation to his Imperial Majesty. Lady Berry conquered all she encountered at the Winter Palace, and Bleyn admonished himself for remained aloof two evenings ago. He did not dance, nor did he venture out of the darkened sitting room where he positioned himself. Tsar Aleksandr kindly told his nephew he need not present himself to the Earl if he did not feel up to it. Now he felt as if he wasted the hours he may have spent getting to know a British Lord.

The English Lady stepped forward and dropped to a deep and elegant curtsey. When she stood, she addressed her host in effortless French, “Your Imperial Highness, I am honoured to attend such a fanciful event.”

“Lady Berry, welcome,” the Grand Duke inclined his head to the dark-haired beauty. “I pray this evening’s entertainment will be to your liking.”

“Raoul-Auger Feuillet is out of fashion in England, as you can imagine,” Lady Rachel stated with all innocence. “I am told it is performed here, Your Imperial Highness.”

Princess Katrina silently grasped at Ladt Berry’s presumptuous behaviour, while Grand Duke Bleyn found it privately amusing. The library in Anderovsak housed volumes from all over the world, including England. In his youth, Bleyn spent many afternoons lost in those pages discovering the world beyond Saint Petersburg. Her mannerism reminded him of a Jacobean comedy he found humorous.

Grand Duke Konstantin smiled at Lady Rachel though his eyes fell on the Earl for a short moment, “Indeed, My Lady, I will speak to my master of music on your behalf.”

“Thank you, Your Imperial Highness,” Rachel replied with doe-eyed excitement.

This evening’s host rotated a half-turn indicating the young man, Kurt watched more often than he should. In a solid, even commanding tone, Grand Duke Konstantin announced, “Your Excellency, honoured guests, may I present, my nephew, Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov.”

The small bob of the Grand Duke Bleyn’s Adam's apple brought a barely noticeable smile to Lord Kurt’s lips. The newly anointed Grand Duke must have noticed because his eyes narrowed in Kurt’s direction, followed by a tiny grin. He stepped forward to greet his uncle’s guests, who offered the politeness his rank demanded.

“It is my pleasure to meet you, Your Excellency,” Bleyn stated in perfect English with a respectful incline of his head. “I must apologize for not greeting you in the presence of His Imperial Majesty the other night.”

“There is no need, Your Imperial Highness,” The Earl responded with a sympathetic look. “May I offer His Majesty's and my condolences to you and your mother, the Dowager Grand Duchess Pamila Sofia Anderov Romanov. Your father was renowned in diplomatic circles, and his voice will be greatly missed.”

Lord Walditch steeled his reactions because he recognized the polite, diplomatic lie. Prior to their presentation to His Imperial Majesty, father and son spoke privately with their Swedish counterpart. Baron Gyllenhielm offered a warning about the children of Tsar Paul and their wives and husbands. The ruler of a nation most often remained aloof, and Tsar Aleksandr met the criteria. The anti-Napoleon Dowager Tsarina Maria Feodorovna might prove a valuable ally because she moderated her ruling son. The daughters of the former Tsar resided elsewhere in Europe, or their age precluded them from affecting the negotiations. The ages of Grand Duke’s Nicholas and Nicholas separated them from the upper echelons of power leaving Grand Duke Konstantin to fill the vacuum left by his twin's death. The passing of Grand Duke Deyven, his heir Grand Duke Kirill, left Grand Duke Bleyn an unknown commodity.

This unknown commodity became a fascination for Lord Walditch, who anticipated an entertaining evening filled with tension. The sight of Grand Duke Bleyn soon ended those thoughts as his mind filled with delightful considerations. The longer he observed the young man, Kurt saw an exotic hint of an Asiatic ancestry. The people of Europe looked at interracial intimacy with disdain, but Kurt found the idea rather exhilarating in the concern of Grand Duke Bleyn. During the trip to Saint Petersburg, Kurt read about Russian. His studies informed his Lordship of the Empire’s immense size and its large dispersion of its peoples. The mostly uninhabited Siberia consisted of a population made of almost equal percentages of Russias and Europeans versus those of Mongolian lineage.

“You are most kind, Your Excellency. I must extend an invitation to dinner at the Anichkov Palace. I do think my mother would enjoy meeting you and those of your house.” Grand Duke Bleyn tilted his head and then looked past the Earl to catch a wisp of a tempting view.

The Earl of Amblesey pleasantly smiled as he made a short bow. “I would be honoured, Your Imperial Highness.”

Grand Duke Bleyn grinned and then turned his attention to their other guests. With a bow, he took Lady Berry’s hand and kissed it. Rachel blushed and offered a gentle smile when the Russian royal rose to his full, compact height. Amber-brown eyes met blue, and Bleyn thought he saw Lord Hummel’s mouth curl into a small playful smirk.

“Lady Berry and Lord Walditch, welcome to Saint Petersburg.” Bleyn continued in English. “I am looking forward to making an acquaintance this evening. We are from diverse countries and have much to offer each other.”

Grand Duke Konstantin’s eyes darkened, and Kurt observed displeasure directed at his nephew. Their host glanced at Prince Sebast'ya, who lightly shook his head with pursed lips. With regret, Lord Walditch readily perceived there might be some discord when the evening ended. How could someone have an issue with the eloquent manner Grand Duke Bleyn made this evening’s guest feel welcome? The handsome young man’s generous smile lit up the room, and his voice reminded the Baron of the smoothness of fine silk. The smallest peek at those eyes caused Lord Kurt’s heart to jump and his head to fill with unsteady thoughts. The things he felt should never happen in polite society, and he hoped no one noticed.

“I am looking forward to exploring your grand city, Your Imperial Highness,” Lord Kurt politely replied with a bow gazing at the Grand Duke’s charming face through his lashes. “I have read Saint Petersburg has an opera to rival the European capitals and the world’s finest ballet. I believe Lady Berry would be greatly interested in them.”

“Indeed, Lord Walditch, one of the finest in Europe.” The tall, lean, ferret-faced beau nasty3 who’s tone spoke of misdeeds, imposed himself on the conversation even as he gave the Grand Duke a hazardous gaze. “May I introduce myself. I am Prince Sebast'ya Ivanovich, and this is my daughter, Princess Katrina Sebasyova, the intended of His Imperial Highness.”

The rudeness shocked Kurt, who observed the Grand Duke struggled to retain his composure rather than challenge the Prince in front of his daughter. The sound of Prince Sebast'ya voice reminded Kurt of a boisterous animal, and his closeness proved disconcerting. Lord Walditch’s eyes went between the two men to find that this Prince overshadowed the Grand Duke, who humbly took a step back. The sight of the young Grand Duke retreating before the arrogant Prince sent a spike of annoyance through Kurt’s chest.

Remembering how Russian nobility compared to British, Lord Kurt inclined his head rather than offer a bow. He stated in Russian, “Your Highnesses, I am honoured to make both your acquaintances.”

After rising from the curtsey, Lady Rachel offered comment, spoken in Russian, to Princess Katrina, “I have heard the Bolshoi has burned down, Your Highness. What a travesty. It was a stage of great renown.”

“Indeed, My Lady,” the Princess sweetly replied. “We must endure the Hermitage. Though it is a grand setting, I dare say it is small and often crowded. The Maly theatre is better situated for a larger assembly though it is a bother to get too. Is, My Lady interested in attending a performance?”

Lady Rachel’s face brightened, and those about her took note of her radiant beauty. “It is my heart’s desire, Your Highness.”

“Then we must see what diversions can be arranged for your entertainment, My Lady,” the Princess responded with all kindliness. Then she looked to Grand Duke Bleyn and stated, “I dare say your uncle has moved on with His Excellency, making it our duty to entertain our guests.”

“Unquestionably, Your Highness.” Grand Duke Bleyn responded to the Princess with a generous smile.

“I hope the Grand Duchess and his His Excellency will open the ball,” Princess Katrina noted with disappointment. A little pout came to her lips as he looked to where Grand Duke Konstantin walked with the Earl.

Bleyn followed her gaze to see the Earl’s adjutant trailing respectfully behind. Lieutenant Wensworth confused Bleyn, and then he recalled the British followed different practices. With a bow, Bleyn asked, “Lady Berry, I would be honoured if you joined me for the first dance.”

A faint blush rose in Lady Rachel’s cheeks, and she politely replied, “I would consider it a privilege to count you as my first partner of the evening, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Princess Katrina, Your Highness,” Kurt inclined his head to do what would be considered proper. “May have the honour of requesting the first dance.”

“It will be my honour, My Lord,” the princess performed a short curtsy and pleasantly smiled.

With little fanfare or concern for the infuriating Prince, Grand Duke Bleyn offered Lady Berry arm as Lord Hummel offered his to the Princess. The Grand Duke turned toward the dance floor, and then he shot Prince Sebast'ya a rueful stare. The Prince glimpsed back with a nacky4 gaze as if he admonished a puppy that could barely nibble, let alone wound. Lord Walditch’s right hand curled up into a ball, and he drew in a careful breath. For some unexplainable reason, Kurt found himself wanting to defend the Russian royal.

The two coupled stopped at the edge of the dance floor to wait as others did. A moment later, the Earl of Amblesey escorted the Grand Duchess out onto the dance floor. The orchestra progressed from soft background music to the first waltz when the Earl bowed as the Grand Duchess dropped into a short but graceful curtsey. As the couple traversed the large open space, Bleyn exchanged a glance with the Princess, who looked relieved. A son grinned at his father when the couple passed by, and then Kurt inclined his head to the Princess. Offering her his arm, Kurt led her out onto the dance floor with Grand Duke Bleyn and Lady Berry a step behind. The two couples made polite salutations to each other as custom demanded and took a turn before others joined in.

Princess Katrina graciously introduced her escort to the groups of nobles she interacted with while Grand Duke Bleyn led Lady Berry in another direction. Lord Kurt enjoyed the company of the Princess, finding her charming and insightful. Her witty comments conjured smiles and honest affection from all they came across. Baron Walditch did his best to keep up with the conversations and found himself increasingly conversing in French.

Kurt Hummel, Baron of Walditch, became the novelty as the ladies of the court flocked to him. Questions and requests kept Lord Kurt busy, and as the evening continued, he unconsciously searched the crowd. Wavy locks attracted him in ways they had never imagined, and he longed to see them. It, however, became obvious his uncle demanded his nephew’s time, and Prince Sebast’ya expected the Grand Duke Bleyn to remain in close contiguity with his daughter. As the evening moved through its phases, Lord Kurt found himself pitying the curly-headed man, who looked more and more like a caged animal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Friday-faced – sad looking  
> 2 Raising some kind of breeze – Up to some mischief  
> 3 Beau nasty – slovenly fop  
> 4 Nacky – ingenious


	5. Kamennoostrovsky – Sepulchre

**18 July 1812**

The chill cascading off the nearby waterway sliced into the warmth, abating a tiny bit of the tension Bleyn endured. It cooled the summer night, presenting relief from the physical heat of the ballroom. The warmth generated by the participants of the game elevated matters to a different intensity. Grand Duke Konstantin enthralled the Earl of Amblesey while Prince Sebast'ya continuously employed his daughter to keep the young Grand Duke diverted. When the Princess accepted a dance from this evening's honoured guest, Bleyn managed a retreat out a side door and onto a stone balcony. Accustomed to the panorama for his uncle’s palace, he made haste into the high hedges at the river’s edge. He slowed and strolled the narrow walkways permitting Bleyn the opportunity to contemplate an earlier notion of summoning his carriage.

The enthusiasm he experienced after the appearance of this evening’s quests waned as the cavorting increased. Although he anxiously wanted to bump into Lord Walditch once more, the demands placed on him determined his actions. After the initial dances, Prince Petrov and Prince Chernysvsky became his constant companions whenever Bleyn found himself unoccupied. Their nagging presence sapped the humour out of the evening and made Bleyn increasingly irritable. Whenever the Earl or any of his party drew close, they steered Bleyn toward a group of boring and bootlicking nobles. If one of the uncle’s lapdogs stomped up to him at his very moment, Bleyn felt no inclination toward kindness.

This nightfall, his proclivity for an unfavourable temperament nagged at the Grand Duke, whose typical nature did not often include prolonged bouts of despondency. Two nights ago, at the Winter Palace, Bleyn had enough and went to sulk. To his surprise, Dowager Tsarina Maria Feodorovna invited him to join her in her private salon. The peace suited him, and the moment the door closed, he felt his blood pressure tumble. Always conscious of what is appropriate around his grandmother, Bleyn waited until she asked him to sit. His grandmother offered him a kind smile, and a delightfully lighthearted manner conversation ensued. Then, without warning, she spoke of things no one bothered to reveal to him.

As the events of this evening evolved, Bleyn found himself thinking of that conversation. The sight of an Englishman walking down the stairs became a fresh breeze that brushed the cobwebs from his head. The presence of this stranger, who did not feel all that strange, lifted him from the depths of his despair, revealing repulsive undertones. Over the years, Uncle Konstantin proved to be abusive, like his father, and the thought of facing him gave Bleyn indigestion. He watched his uncle speaking nicely to his guest and then snickering with his friends when the Earl’s interests took him elsewhere. The sight added to his confusion and dismay, reinforcing his recent thoughts. Following his father's death, Konstantin started making demands of Grand Duke Kirill, even though he served with the army. Then the French cut Bleyn’s older brother down, and Konstantin became intrusive as if something unthinkable forced him to change directions abruptly.

That alteration went mostly unnoticed until two people opened his eyes. This new reality stifled his thinking and accented his concern for his mother, overweighing his fascination with a pleasurable distraction. His greetings must have upset his uncle, and now Bleyn paid the price―depression. It played on him like a vicious fever bleeding1 could not end, making him listless and irritable. The internal struggle tugged on his guilt for attending the ball and a newer desire to seek someone out. The sight of blue orbs drew him places he had not thought of for years, reminding him of the remorse he experienced. To think of that now only encouraged the burden he felt for abandoning his mother for a night of frivolity. The distraught woman languished for days in bed following the news of Kirill’s death and only managed thin soup and tea to sustain her. Earlier last week, Bleyn persuaded his mother to join him for a light lunch, and that afternoon she took to sitting in the window with a haunted look on his face.

The location he found himself, while peaceful, did not comfort as he might have expected. Sparse light played upon the top of the gray, moss-covered sepulchre wall illuminating a gargoyle set over the door. As a child, the sight of the ghoulish figures frightened him, but now, Bleyn found himself studying the grotesque stone carvings. A distant relative built the macabre structure during the days of Saint Petersburg's construction. Over the years, the land changed hands several times until Catherine the Great acquired it. Tsar Aleksandr favoured the palace and permitted his brother to use it as his primary residence.

A flash of light danced off the bronze doors, and Bleyn steeled his heart. The young man raked his finger through his hair, messing it up. Looking up at the stone edifice, Bleyn sighed and then shook his head. The thick stone door that leads to the crypt in Anderovska remained sealed for decades, and the burial of two Grand Dukes would not open it again. Ever since the family became part of the Romanov dynasty, tradition dictated burials occur at the Peter and Paul Cathedral.

The surge of lustre faded as the servant charged with lighting the garden's oil lamps marched on along the twisting path. Bleyn’s lips pushed to one side, and then a bitter rumble reverberated in the Grand Duke’s throat. The priority of the lighting of the rose gardens around the fountains and reflection pond meant that the boy who just trotted by most likely would not return. This fact pleased the downtrodden Grand Duke, who wanted nothing but a reprieve from the constant pestering. He could well imagine his absence being uncovered by now, and a sickly feeling touched his stomach.

He knew he would have to return at some point, but for now, he pretended he hid behind the shelves in his lady’s parlour. The thought made the Grand Duke suddenly realized he missed his brother much more than his father. Inadvertently leaned back, and his head pushed into the hedge, and he frowned. Strands of hair pulled when he tilted forward to find that his long locks escaped their captivity. He sighed at the repugnant idea such a place would make him understand this, and his head sank further forward. Hair flopped in front of his eyes, and he blew accompanied by a scowl. He brushed it from his face and pressed it down onto his head, hoping the promod might hold it.

As inconsequential as it might be, the struggle to reign in his hair amused the Grand Duke. He felt a chuckle growing, and then it suddenly flattened when he heard the crunching of stones on the other side of the hedge. Someone moved in a hurry, and then he heard a voice calling out in a familiar language rarely contemplated in this city. Bleyn’s heart skipped a beat and not for the reason he considered proper.

“Blimey!2”.A high-pitched voice spoke in English. “Will you slow down,”

The tone of the words sent a shiver through Bleyn, and then a comforting warmth bloomed in his chest. Something rattled the foliage on the other side of the hedge, and goosebumps rose on his arms under his uniform. The Grand Duke checked his motions and held his breath.

“Those chawbacons3,” a woman angrily pronounced, in harsh English. She sounded strained as if she fought to control her rage.

“Rachel, calm down.” The man said with compassion in his tone. “We need not make a scene,”

The Grand Duke made a face as he raked his curls, pressing them down again. The intensity of the Baron’s voice took his breath away, and his hand slapped down upon his thigh. Concern struck, and he felt himself shrink down into the bench.

“Do not take me a being dicked in the nob4, Kurt,” Rachel struggled to retain her composure. “The foozler4 said it to my face.”

“Rachel?” Kurt sounded aghast.

“Yes, yes,” Rachel nattered on as she tried to control her tone. “I must be proper. We always have to be proper. People need to live a little.”

It sounded liked Kurt snorted, “That is not our place. We are not libertarians.”

“Maybe I am,” Lady Berry chortled.

Libertarian? Bleyn’s brow furrowed at the idea of what his family thinks of autonomy and freedoms for the masses. The ruling clique would send such revolutionaries to Siberia to cut trees and starve to death. His agriculture studies showed him the appalling conditions in which lower classes live, and now that he had the power, he considered doing something about it. What would his uncle think? Bleyn shivered, and then he pushed off the bench to stand only to hear Prince Chernysvsky’s irritating voice sounded in the distance. The unfortunate intrusion stymied the prosecution of appropriate action, and Bleyn’s buttock landed heavily on the bench.

“Rachel, you need to remember where we area and who we are.” He snappy retort became sobs.

“Rachel, you must understand the situation.” Kurt sounded distraught. “We are guests in the residence of a man who we are technically at war with.”

“You think I do not know that, Kurt!”

“To cry beef6 will not help.”

“Hah.”

“We have an obligation.”

“Obligations! Always bloody obligations!”

A single word, obligation, coupled with his heart's heaviness, constrained the miserable Grand Duke. What manner of scoundrel would bring the lady to tears? Rage surged within the Grand Duke, making him feel helpless. A gentleman would step away from the disgrace of eavesdropping, and no matter how he tried, Bleyn could not muster the strength to stand. To make matters worse, the sound of weeping and soft, caring words leeched through the foliage tore at his morals. The tomb offered little chance for an unnoticed escape because the hedge surrounded it, and matter what he did, his complicity would be revealed.

“Rachel, let me lay my jacket on this bench, and we can sit.” Kurt offered. The rustling of fabric and the something racked down the foliage on the other side of the three-foot-thick hedge.

The woman on the other side of the hedge sniffled and bitterly replied, “Yes, yes, back to the world of the stiff upper lip and arranged marriages.”

“Rachel, please don’t.” Lord Kurt pleaded.

Feet shuffled on the gravel, and then Lady Berry snapped, “Kurt, you have no idea.”

“I think I do,” Kurt sounded disappointed, and the vegetation rustled. “It is like the fox and the rabbit.”

“Honestly, Lord Walditch?” Rachel seemed befuddled and upset. “Why are you treating me like a child?”

Kurt huffed, “Rachel, you are not a child.”

Rachel growled, “Foxes and rabbits, that old tale? What were you eight?”

“I was ten.” Kurt sighed.

“And he told you the fox commands his domain unscrupulously making the laws and demanding society conform to the strict code of behaviour influencing―”

“Rachel, do you want to be ostracized and possibly loss of the privileges of your birth?”

“One must marry right, act right and do nothing to embarrass their betters or equals. Name and position mean everything, and nothing must disturb the carefully crafted balance.”

“We endure to maintain what we have, Rachel.”

“You sound like all those insufferable men who want me only because I am a sole heiress. They are like the ceaseless parade of lords and ladies in that room attempting to impress with their veiled insults.”

“Rachel, you need to calm down. The evening is long from over.”

“And what did you have me do, chivalrous, Lord Kurt Hummel!”

Bleyn bristled at the sound of Lady Berry’s accusing tone, and then he felt his own deceitful. Shying away from the hedge, he felt much like he did in his youth when he would hide in a secret little cubby-hole he found in the lady’s sitting room. His mother gave him a real tongue lashing when she finally discovered him, but it did not compare to a thrashing from his father. These thoughts did not forgive the indecency of eavesdropping, and he had to make amends before it went any further.

“My Lady Berry, what did I do?” Kurt’s started with a harsh, pitched tone that softened with each word. “I interceded and ushed you into the gardens to remove you from any further humiliation.”

“Honestly, Kurt. We―” Lady Rachel’s voice had a deep, gravelly, hardness to it.

“Rachel. We are rabbits in the house of the fox.” Kurt sighed. “We are bound by the restrictions placed upon us by my father and civilized behaviour regardless of what the foxes presume. We cannot do as we please.”

“Why not?”

“Rachel, do you think I do not want to live my life being―”

“Kurt, honestly. You are male.”

“You know that makes no difference.”

“It does!”

“Let us not go there again.”

“Fine!”

No one spoke for a moment, and Bleyn held his breath. Then Lord Walditch said in a low volume, “If I had been present, I would certainly have protested.”

“It would have been brave of you, but unwise.” Rachel sniffled again, and it became apparent she struggled.

“Here, take this,” Kurt said, and Bleyn surmised he passed her a handkerchief.

“Thank you,” Lady Berry sounded less upset. “Kurt, we rabbits must not provoke the foxes. It is what they desire.”

“Surely not?” Kurt’s voice had an unpleasantness about it.

Bleyn swallowed his gasp, and then he placed his hand over his mouth. Shame rose in his cheeks because he found himself prepared to endure the ethical impropriety of his present situation rather than face his uncle's bitter stares and the ingratitude of three insufferable Princes.

“Kurt, you are my dearest friend, yet, at times, you can be so oblique.” Lady Rachel bluntly stated.

Mortified by the Lady’s injurious words, Bleyn felt anger rise in him and, to his surprise, in defence of a British Lord. Three fingers racked up his forehead, and he released a long and silent breath. Bleyn could not deny he found Lord Walditch exciting even though he struggled to understand. Other people caught his interest over the years, and they became friends or short-term acquaintances. What made him different?

Kurt hesitated and then replied, “Rachel, that was unkind.”

“Perhaps it was. Shall we return to the ball, my Lord. I owe Count Turgenev a dance,” Rachel announced much to the Grand Duke’s relief. “I do not want to disappoint your―”

The lady started to sob once more, and the hedge rustle as if someone shifted. The Grand Duke grit his teeth, and then he heard something genuinely terrible.

“He touched me, Kurt.” Rachel’s shaky words announced between sobs. “Most unappropriated.”

“What?” Kurt’s struggled with his pitch and volume. “We must tell my father.”

“No.” Rachel sniffled. “No, we cannot give them the incident they desire.”

Kurt sounded aghast. “He must be challenged.”

“No, Kurt, he must not. It is a matter of honour, Kurt. Not my honour, but that of His Imperial Majesty and our gracious King.” Rachel sternly stated, and then rocks moved as if stood. “Let us return and speak no more of this evening.”

The thought Lady Berry would refuse to defend her honour in the service of her monarch shocked Bleyn. Most women he knew would have made a frightful scene, and he must commend Lady Berry for her restraint. A hand came to rest on the stone bench, and Bleyn bowed his head.

“It is imperative my father is informed,” Kurt objected.

“I will tell him, but not here and not now. I will not give them what they want, and I will not embarrass our King,” Rachel’s voice had that practiced decorum of well-bred ladies. “Now lend me your arm. Once I have danced with the count, we will find your father and remain with him until we leave.”

“Very well, Rachel,” Kurt conceded. “I will not be far from your side, or I will have Lieutenant Wensworth stand close.”

“Thank you, Kurt.” Lady Berry sweetly said. “I know I am bothersome at times, but you have always been my champion.”

“Rachel, you make life interesting, and I would have it no other way,” Lord Walditch’s voice sounded more distant.

The Grand Duke felt deeply ashamed for his innocent collaboration in the lady’s humiliation. If what Lady Berry claimed proved correct, the most heinous infringement of one’s person took place. He could not imagine Grand Duke Konstantin perpetuating such and act on someone under his Imperial Majesty’s protection. Then he paused and bit his lip, knowing one individual who would find pleasure in provoking an unseemly display.

Bleyn plowed two hands through his locks, smoothing them out and then he leaned forward. One hand fell on his thigh, and he leaned slightly forward, struggling with what he had brazenly overheard. Vodka came to mind, and unlike his father and brother, he detested it. This little thing highlighted the difference between the men who called Anderovska home. His father lived life to excess and would not hesitate to have a servant whipped. Likewise, his brother would have insulted a refined lady in the manner if it suited him.

No matter what he did, the torments forced on him by his father played out in his head. The worst involved his father’s determination to mould his son to be a mirror of his will. His sire often took Bleyn to the stables to show the young son what a true stallion should be. As he grew older, his father and uncle took Bleyn places to view the vilest displays of debauchery. More and more, the young master retreated into his books and finding ways to avoid these unseemingly commitments. His father and uncle blamed his mother, and then Bleyn announced he would be joining the army. For the first time in many years, his father seemed honestly pleased with his youngest son. The awarding of the Order of Saint Stanislaus to his nineteen-year-old son presented opportunities to broker a suitable marriage for Bleyn. Of course, they did not consider Bleyn’s interests as his uncle suggested Princess Katrina to be the most suitable match.

Loud laughter on nearby path drew the Grand Duke from his terrible thoughts. Rolling his neck, Bleyn sat up and took too deep breaths to settle his nerves. With steely resolve, Bleyn pushed himself off the bench and straightened his clothes. With slow, even hesitant resolve, he walked around the hedge and onto the path only to pause. His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer to the beach with a furrowed brow. The pulsating light from the nearby oil lamp flickered off something made of silver. The Grand Duke bent down to see a button pushed into the gravel. For a moment, he considered leaving it there, and then he picked it up. Turning it over in his fingers, he spied a crest he did not recognize.

The button found itself pressed into a pocket inside his coat as he slowly made his way back to the ballroom. He barely reached the top of the stairs when Prince Chernyavsky rushed up to Bleyn with an apprehensive look. The Grand Duke turned and greeted the Prince with a surly comment, “There is no need for a scene. You have found me.”

Prince Chernyavsky responded with a puzzled expression, “Your Imperial Highness?”

“You were clumsy in your search, Prince Chernyavsky.” Bleyn’s tone had uncharacteristic sharpness to it.

Prince Chernyavsky looked annoyed and spoke with care. “Grand Duke Konstantin requires your presence.”

“More like Prince Sebast'ya,” Grand Duke Bleyn waved the remark off. “I will dance with Princess Natalya, and then I will make my apologies to my uncle.”

“Your Imperial Highness?” the Prince challenged as he grabbed Bleyn by the bicep.

Normally jovial eyes darkened as the Grand Duke gaze up at the taller man. In a stern voice that everyone nearby would hear, he offered a rebuke, “How dare you touch me and make commands me as if I were a servant. I will depart my presence and not inconvenience me again this evening. Do you understand, Prince Chernyavsky!”

The Prince’s consternation played across his face as his mouth puffed out at is he might offer a retort. Then, with a terse bow, he turned and stormed off, followed by gossipy tongues. All those within earshot backed away with polite bows and curtsies.

Passing through the polished glass and gold doors, the themes of gentle music bathed Bleyn soothing his indignation. He paused at the edge of the dance floor and then made his way to Princess Natalya, chatting with acquaintances. After an elegant bow, Bleyn offered the Princess his arm and strolled to the dance floor to await the next piece of music. Between the rows of dancers, he saw Prince Sebast'ya, with Prince Chernyavsky in tow, working his way toward Grand Duke Konstantin over by the grand stairs.

People applauded with the completion of the current round and exchanged places for the next piece. Leading the Princess out onto the floor, the Grand Duke eyed the Earl of Amblesey walk onto to dance with the Lady Berry on his arm. The lady ambled next to the Earl as politely possible with a practiced pose Bleyn recognized in himself the past weeks. When the Princess and the Grand Duke passed the Earl and Lady Berry, he offered them both a nod and a cheery smile. Princess Natalya’s eyes focused on Lady Berry for a long moment providing the Grand Duke with an opening. Regardless of the fallout, he saw himself as a man on a mission, and he gently coaxed Prince Natalya for the evening’s scandalous gossip.

As he spun Princess Natalya around, he spied a dull blue and green uniform headed for the door to the garden balcony. When the waltz ended, Bleyn politely bowed to Princess Natalya and kissed her hand. He stood and smiled, knowing he owed her more than just this little indulgence. Holding out his arm, he escorted her back to her friends, where Prince Sebast'ya tried to impose. The Grand Duke ignored the Prince and marched toward the balcony doors, where he paused.

The interloper inclined his head, but before he could speak, Bleyn said in an angry tone, “Prince Sebast'ya, you can scurry back to my uncle and inform him I will be there presently to offer my regards. I will be departing.”

Prince Sebast'ya brows pushed together, and then the said in a more domineering tone, “Your Imperial Highness, Grand Duke Konstantin asks―”

Amber-brown eyes narrowed as Bleyn dismissed the Prince with a wave of his hand and a stern statement, “You have my permission to depart, Your Highness.”

Anger crossed the Prince’s face, and then he acceded to an authoritative tone as he backed away with a bow.

Without as much as a glance at the Prince, Grand Duke Bleyn sauntered through the doors left open to allow the cool river breeze to bathe the ballroom. Resolved that someone would follow, Bleyn made his way toward a group of young nobles he often rode with and joined their conversation. All the while, he watched Lord Hummel off to one side, leaning against the stone railing with a look of deep concentration on his face. His Imperial Highness regarded the British Lord with concern for two reason̶―Lady Berry and his sentiments. A dull pain spread through his chest as he stared at the worry on the young man’s face. Even though he noticed Prince Petrov in the corner of his eyes, he decided he must speak to the intriguing man. Making his excuses to his companions, the Grand Duke stepped away.

“Lord Walditch.” Grand Duke Bleyn placed a hand informally on the cold stone. He spoke in English, knowing the eavesdropping Prince would not understand. “I have to apologize for my unforgivable behaviour in taking the time to speak to you,”

The British noble looked startled at first, and then Lord Kurt quickly recovered and bowed. “Your Imperial Highness, you have offered no offence that required an apology. The evening is full of merriment, which prevented us from encountering each other since our introduction.”

Polite conversation demanded a polite answer even though Bleyn found it challenging. The two-fold confession meant to easy Bleyn’s conscious but did not heal the wound. Standing close to the English noble only made him feel worse. He answered as etiquette demanded in a neutral tone, “The evening has been enjoyable long, Lord Walditch.”

“Indeed, Your Imperial Highness,” Kurt replied in a quiet and more relaxed tone. After returning to the ballroom, Kurt remained at Lady Rachel’s side until his father requested a dance.

“Tedious best describes it.” The Grand Duke’s smile revealed an honest warmth for the first time tonight. Modesty told him he should not look at a man in that way.

Baron Walditch blinked and glanced up into the sky.

Surprise splashed in the Grand Duke’s eyes, followed by a hint of embarrassment, “Forgive me for being familiar, Lord Walditch.”

“Again, there is no need, Your Imperial Highness.” Kurt fell suddenly silent, and his head drooped before he added, “Please forgive me if I am presumptive, but I must commend your bravery. I certainly would not desire such a public venue for mourning.”

“I have not taken offence, Lord Walditch,” Bleyn replied, even though he frowned.

The Baron of Walditch glanced at the short, handsome man feeling a shiver run up his back. In a quiet tone, he said, “May I offer my heartfelt condolences, Your Imperial Highness. I lost my mother when I was young, and not a day goes by when I do not think of her.”

A slight flush raced up the Grand Duke’s neck, leaving him stunned as to how to reply. He should have been furious that Lord Walditch’s presumption of familiarity, but he could not find it in himself. Something about a foreigner with alabaster skin conjured up things he never felt before and should not consider. Proper people did not consider such things.

“Thank you, Lord Walditch.” Bleyn offered a small, warm smile. “I must admit, I find your assertion most soothing. Allow me to offer my condolences to you and your father.”

“You are most kind, Your Imperial Highness.” The genuinely happy smile Kurt offered in return spoke of unforeseen possibility. “I must rejoin my father and Lady Berry, but rest assured, I have found pleasure in your words.”

“Lord Walditch, I wish you, your father and Lady Berry a pleasant stay in Saint Petersburg.” Bleyn nodded to the English lord and took a step back before shyly adding, “I do hope we meet again.”

After a bow, Lord Kurt took one step and then turned to Bleyn and softly said, “It is my hope, as well, Your Imperial Highness.”

Kurt bowed once more, and he walked away toward the ballroom. The Grand Duke’s brows furrowed and not out of annoyance but curiosity. Turning toward the gardens, he leaned on the railing and gazed at the city on the other side of the river. Closing his eyes for a second, he gravely pondered what he learned from Princess Natalya.

Someone stepped close, and the Grand Duke blinked. A glance to his left proved the intrusion to be of no consequence, and he looked up to the moon. His eyes then went down to the ring he wore and the power it represented. He grinned and asked himself, “Am I a fox or a rabbit?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Bleeding – Practiced in ancient Egypt, bleeding or bloodletting became the standard treatment for various conditions from plague, smallpox, epilepsy, gout and to reduce inflammation. The people of the time thought to be the root of all disease. Practitioners typically nicked veins in the forearm or neck.  
> 2 Blimey – Used to express one’s surprise, excitement or alarm  
> 3 Chawbacon – Country fellow  
> 4 Dicked in the nob -- Crazy  
> 5 Foozler – A bungler, or one who does things clumsily  
> 6 To cry beef – To sound the alarm


	6. Moyka River

**24 July 1812**

Lord Walditch sat in the drawing-room, thinking about the traumatic events leading up to this morning. Following the ball at Kamennoostrovsky Palace, the Earl attended consultations with the Prince Nikolai Ivanovič Saltykov, Chief Minister, Chairman of the State Council, and the Committee of Ministers, and Rachel huddled indoors, forcing Kurt to entertain. Lady Berry. Rachel’s ability to maintain her buoyant poise in public amazed Kurt, but on the ride back to their temporary home in Saint Petersburg, she broke into fretful tears. Highly embarrassed to speak about such things in front of his father, Lord Kurt’s normally peaceful nature grew angry as he delicately spoke of Lady Rachel’s experiences. Understandably, the Earl went into a rage until Lady Rachel begged him to be calm. She insisted he did nothing, pleading their detractors wanted to invent a scandal. Once more, she spoke of their duty to their King and his Imperial Majesty, guilting the Earl to relent.

Shortly after Lady Rachel went to bed, heated words erupted between father and son in the library away from prying servants. Father accused his son of dereliction in his duty to protect his ward’s honour, and his son, for the most part, sat obediently through the scathing reprimand. When he felt he could hold his anger no longer, Kurt stood up to his father. He mingled and danced as instructed, keeping the famous stiff British upper lip for the sake of King and country. Pointing out that he had no control over what occurred on the dancefloor brought his father back to a reasonable state. A topped-up drink later, father and son sat opposite each other, holding uneasy gazes. Then, the Earl of Amblesey, the pillar of everything British, shed a tear. Lord Kurt sat there dumbfounded, sd his father announced he wished his wife still lived. Countess Elizabeth Hummel would have known how to ease Lady Rachel’s grief, and in that instant, a son understood how deeply his father continued to grieve.

Father and son sat in silence for a short while staring at the fire, and then the question of what to do came up. The plan set before them involved keeping Lady Rachel occupied, which proved harder than said than done. She took to her bed, eating little and speaking less. Rachel’s timid lady’s maid, Emma Pillsbury, tried her best, but it fell to Kurt to keep Her Ladyship on a positive footing. He read to her and tried to coax her with little games and music with little success. Then, when he thought he reached his wit's end, Corporal Hudson, Kurt’s adjutant, knocked on the door to tell Baron his father wanted to see him. With no one to sit with Lady Rachel, Lord Kurt asked the Corporal to remain. When he returned two hours later, Lord Walditch heard singing through the door, and when he opened, a surprised corporal jumped to his feet. Lady Rachel sat up in the bed with the cover hiding her body with a small smile on her face. As in Spain, Corporal Hudson became a godsend for Lord Kurt and that now extended to Russia. His Lordship had invitations to the opera and other social events he must attend in his father’s name, and worrying about Lady Rachel had become a preoccupation. Two days into the ordeal, Kurt commended the Corporal to his father for his diligence and kindness. Suitably impressed, the Earl excused the corporal from his other duties assigning him to Lady Rachel’s escort.

A puff of air passed over Kurt’s lips, and he glanced up from the Russian fairy tale he read. The clock on the wall ticked on, and with his father waiting, Lord Walditch felt anxious. Her Ladyship would not have attended this morning if not for the Earl’s insistence. Protocol demanded Baron Carl Carlsson Gyllenhielm of Sweden and Earl Burton Hummel of Great Britain present themselves with their wives and families to the Tsar prior to the talks processing beyond the initial stage. The thrill of privately meeting the Tsar became a tonic, and Lord Kurt watched how her Ladyship blossomed in the Imperial presence. Her renewed enthusiasm resulted in the dismissal of the carriage and the passage of three young foreigners through the Winter Palace's gates. Kurt pleaded they should not walk, but, in her usual fashion, she insisted and the men hand to run after her. While not attending His Imperial Majesty, Corporal Hudson accompanies the noble pair past the guard who barely noted them. Lady Berry pulled at Kurt away from the road to the Lyonechovka Palace toward the Moyka River. He sighed and almost insisted on the more direct route, but the warmth of the sun soaking into the fabric covering his back felt wonderful.

Lord Kurt wore a formal dark blue velvet coat with grey pants and a silver waistcoat. An uncomfortable Corporal Hudson attired himself in a dark brown suit of a country gentleman. The tailor did excellent work on short notice, attiring the man in an outfit suitable for an afternoon tea. After an hour of fussing over her clothing, Lady Rachel settled on a pale blue gown, her simple diamond necklace and earring and a tiara. When she asserted her desire to walk, Kurt encouraged her to take off the tiara because people might stare. She gave Kurt a stern look and then carefully put it in her bag.

The two nobles spoke in Russian to not stand out, leaving the corporal trailing behind in silence. Kurt found the sauntering pace from the square of the river pleasant and satisfying. He walked the river in the morning, the day of the ball and found the neighbourhood an enjoyable combination of government offices and elegant housing. A barge laden with construction material moved against the current with several singing oarsmen keeping it on course. Long ago, they build the riverbanks up with stone creating a level road and sidewalk next to the water. Trees grew out of bright flower beds set in squares lined with stone and backed by benches for people to sit and study the vista.

The threesome turned to the north and onto the river boulevard, crowded with people doing the same thing. Carriages and carts rattled on the cobblestones weaving around one another and the steady stream of pedestrians. A commotion up the street caught Kurt’s attention, and he looked ahead to see people scattering as a hasty carriage rounded the corner. The landau slid slightly as the two horses snorted as the driver whipped them. Wooden wheels clattered on the street, splashing through the puddles left over from the thunderstorm that soaked the city during their presentation to the Tsar. The fast-moving conveyance steered around a cart laden with furniture splashing up water. Lady Rachel screeched as a wave of muddy water washed up onto her fine velvet and lace dress, leaving strains up to the knees.

A hansom cab travelling in the opposite direction stopped suddenly, throwing its occupant forward. The passenger righted himself with a sneer, and a cane struck the compartment's roof, providing a hint to the driver should carry on. The hansom cab lurched forward and turned to the left before going straight again. The traveller peeked out the window to see a cart turned over on its side with a large chest and some chairs spilled out onto the cobblestones. A man stood waving his hands over his head while some bystanders hustled over to help him right his cart and calm his horse. The man sat back, shaking his head and glanced at the riverside and his brow furrowed. Banging on the roof, he countermanded his previous instructions while opening the door, popping his head out.

“Lord Walditch, Lady Berry,” the passenger called in English.

The son of the Earl of Amblesey stared at the concerned face of Grand Duke Bleyn gazing at him. He bowed and said with surprise on his face, and he said, “Your Imperial Highness.”

The Grand Duke felt a tingle in his chest at the sound of Lord Kurt’s face, and the right side of his face rose into a cute lopsided smirk. His expression abruptly changed, and Bleyn climbed down and stepped toward the distraught woman, “Lady Berry, are you alright?”

“That buffoon . . . Oh, please forgive me, Your Imperial Highness.” Rachel dropped into a curtsey, and the hem of her dress sank into the puddle at her feet. Rachel grasped the fabric holding it up, revealing part of her ankle.

“No, no, Lady Berry.” Bleyn felt lost for words as he stared at streaks of muddy water on her finery. “What can I do to be of assistance.”

“We have only a short way to go, Your Imperial Highness,” Lady Rachel softly replied, still looking mortified.

“Allow me to assure you, we are not all cads in Saint Petersburg, unlike the occupant of that carriage,” The words flowed from Bleyn before he realized he spoke them. Heat rose in his neck as he realized he could offer some manner of compensation for his inadequacy at the ball. “We must transport you quickly away, so you do not complicate your illness.”

The son of a British aristocrat blinked, and then he considered unprincipled individuals bend on mischief would certainly spread gossip. He peeked at the Grand Duke and noticed the honest dismay in his eyes, and his expression softened. The Russian royal looked different in the light of the day. Even if Kurt had noticed the other night, the harshness of a balcony's shadows hid many pleasant features. Long lashes accented the man’s soft eyes, and the sight of a few hours of stubble, creating a tantalizing haze along the chin and cheek line. The dark curls held their place even though a few ranged freely across the forehead hinted at mystery. The cut of the light gray waistcoat under the dark gray jacket suggested an athletic shape. 

Suddenly embarrassed, Lord Kurt turned to hide the flush in his cheeks and looked down the river from whence the Grand Duke had come. He said in a disappointed voice, “I fear the scoundrel is far from here.”

“Rest assured, Lord Walditch and Lady Berry. I will have words with the Count for not only the deplorable manners but for spooking my horse.” The Grand Duke looked from the English nobles and spotted a hint of redness Lord Kurt’s ears enduring. “Lady Berry, allow me to convey you to your lodgings.”

“I would be most grateful, Your Imperial Highness, but I do not want to be a bother,” Lady Berry politely replied.

“It is no problem, My Lady,” Bleyn peeked at his conveyance and groaned. “I am afraid I can transport only two people.”

“I cannot arrive at our lodgings in this condition with a strange man,” Rachel spoke without deliberation and then blushed as she dropped into a short curtsy. “Please forgive me, Your Imperial Highness, I am quite distressed.”

“Then I will have my man deliver yourself and Lord Walditch to Lyonechovka,” The Grand Duke glanced at his hansom cab. “I am sure your man will be able to find his way.”

“I cannot have you walking, the streets unaccompanied, Your Imperial Highness,” Rachel shyly looked down, ashamed she spoke out of turn.

“May, I make a suggestion that may resolve the impasse and speed, Lady Berry, to her destination,” Lord Kurt stated with a quick incline of his head. The sudden thrill in his stomach felt queer and, strangely, not unwelcome.

The Grand Duke returned a serious look. “By all means, Lord Walditch. Lady Berry’s comfort is our chief concern.”

“I suggest I sent Hudson, with the Lady Berry.” Kurt indicated the tall man standing attentively silent off to one side. “If Your Imperial Highness permits, I will accompany you for some short time until your man returns.”

Grand Duke Bleyn reflected on the proposal and then said, “Lady Berry, take my arm, and I will see you settled for your journey and then Hudson may join you. Lord Walditch, it would be a pleasure to stroll with you. It is not very often I get to walk in the city.”

Lady Rachel took the arm offered by the Grand Duke, and Lord Hummel’s aided her in ascending the hansom cab. When they settled Rachel, Kurt turned to Hudson and offered instruction while the Grand Duke spoke of his driver. A minute later, the gentle snap of the reins on the backside of a horse jerked the hansom cab forward. Lord Kurt stood apart from the Grand Duke, watching the carriage bounce on the cobblestones.

Lord Kurt gazed at the Grand Duke as if he did not know what to do, and then he inclined his head and said, “Your Imperial Highness, the Winter palace is but steps away. I can convey you there where I am certain you may find your way to whatever your destination.”

“I would not want to disappoint Lady Berry, nor would I deny myself the pleasure of your company, Lord Walditch,” Bleyn replied with a cheeky glint in his eye. Even though the day began with the dissatisfaction of meeting with one of his uncle’s functionaries, seeing the British noble made him tingle all over.

“Your Imperial Highness, you honour me,” Kurt offered a short bow garnering looks from some of those passing them.

“We are attracting attention, Lord Hummel,” Bleyn said with a little smirk. “Perhaps you would like to stroll the Summer Gardens on the way to Lyonechovka.”

“Your Imperial Highness?” Kurt tried not to make it look like he objected when he did. Appropriateness demanded he refrained from exploiting his proximity to the Grand Duke even if the idea tickled him all the way down to the bottom of his feet.

“Come, Lord Walditch, I would be a less than gracious host if I did not show you some aspect of the city and what better way than on foot.” Grand Duke Bleyn offered Lord Kurt a charming little smile thinking he would never have done this in the past. “I am afraid you may be required to remain with me longer than you might expect. My man will be waiting at Lyonechovka.”

Surprise washed over Kurt’s face. His stiff British upper lip faltered as he returned a deep smile. He managed to say, “You surprise me, Your Imperial Highness.”

The delighted smile warmed Bleyn’s toes and then slowly spread up his legs into his torso. The sensation pleasantly shocked the Grand Duke, who felt pleasantly bewildered. His head drooped ever so slightly, and he grappled with the ambiguous desire to be near the Baron.

The men started to walk, ignoring the strange looks of some pedestrians. Most did not care about two men taking a stroll, but some recognized the Grand Duke. The sight of their expressions amused Bleyn, who said to his companion, “Have you strolled the river Moyka before, Lord Walditch.”

“I strolled is banks the other day,” Kurt replied with a pleasant little smile. “It was once called the Mya, which I believe is an Ingrian word for slush or mire. It flows from the Fontanka near the Summer Garden and snakes through the city before spilling into the Neva. I believe Peter the Great consolidated the banks, and later the embankments were lined with the red granite we can now see.”

“Lord Walditch, you appear well versed,” the Grand Duke replied with a fondness.

“I have to admit, Your Imperial Highness, I did read a few books on your city during the voyage.” Kurt shyly glanced down.

“I enjoy researching foreign lands, thus my skill in England,” Bleyn answered as he tipped his head to a group of ladies walking in the opposite direction. Conscious of those about him, the Grand Duke set a stately pace as they strode the river.

“The French?” Kurt felt very sheepish after he spoke.

Grand Duke Deyven Pavlovich Anderov Romanov would have scowled at the bluntness if he spoke to someone else. Since they last talked, Bleyn’s opinion of the French diminished and not wholly due to the war. Recent accounts hinted at his father and uncle profiting from Napoleon’s wars, and Bleyn wanted to end his house’s participation in these ventures. The functionary spoke of investments and lucrative supply contracts, and when asked, the man would not state if the agreements remained in force.

The English man felt his chest squeeze when he realized the Grand Duke looked vulnerable. In a calm tone, he said, “I must apologize, Your Imperial Highness, I am making assumptions.”

“A correct assumption, Lord Walditch and I would not broker an apology.” Bleyn tilted his head to the left to increase the angle he viewed the gentleman next to him. “Considering Russia’s past affiliation with our present combatant, it was required.”

“And now England is in favour,” Kurt replied with a naughty little smirk.

To his surprise, Bleyn found himself distracted by how close he stood to the British noble. The apprehension he felt about being exposed to people and places he would usually not have anything to do with ebbed away, leaving a sense of safety. The bewitching nature of this young man lifted the fog of remorse, haunting his mind resulting in an intoxicating homey warmth enveloping his heart. In some way, he felt a loss of equilibrium somewhat akin to drinking a comfortable amount of wine and the corresponding happy mood.

The silence pestered Lord Kurt as the two men passed along the river's gentle curve, passing Moshkov Pereulok on the way to Kyuglyy Pereulok. He snuck a peek now and then at the shorter man with carefully structured hair, then back at the river. The sun dancing on the gentle waves sparkled and conjured up a fuzzy and disturbing vision. A wide body of muddy water flowed between sand-coloured banks lined with trees Lord Kurt knew from the books he read. A huge stone structure with a human head rose behind the long tree trunks topped with foliage shaped like large parasols. Two boys played within the reeds, splashed water up at each other and laughing. Lord Hummel stammered to stop and blinked and found himself staring at the piled stones supporting the street and the building's pillars lining it. A hand landed on his cheek, and a shudder raced up his back. He forced himself to swallow because the boy he saw had dark curly hair and soft amber-brown eyes.

“Lord Walditch?” Grand Duke Bleyn stood facing him with an odd look on his face. “Are you unwell?”

“Ah, sorry, Your Imperial Highness,” Lord Hummel turned to face the Grand Duke to the same amber-brown eyes gazing at him.

The brightness of Lord Hummel’s eyes triggered a reaction Bleyn did not expect. The centre of his chest lit up, and currents of fluttering heat surged through his body, making it hard to breathe. He saw himself reflected in Lord Hummel’s wide eyes splashing water at someone who he imagined Kurt must have looked like in his youth. The unfathomably sense of playfulness cracked a door open, and a thin sliver of light revealed an unforeseen truth. Decency demanded he turned away, and the Grand Duke found he could not because those swirls of blue held a promise he never dreamed possible.

The searing sight mirrored in soft, honey-coloured eyes struck Kurt as unthinkable, and strict sensibilities pounced on him. Perfection faded the moment the blush race up his neck, and he looked away. Grey tones tore the vibrant moving pictures from his thoughts, and he felt instant regret. What would people think of two men stared at each other in this sinful way? Thoughts carried him back to his youth when he first discovered certain pleasures his body could provide. This experimentation led to sentiments he did not comprehend and feared speaking of. His soul screamed at him to look up, but social niceties required Lord Kurt to acquiesce to someone of high rank.

What Grand Duke Bleyn saw shook him, and he did not know what to do about it. He should feel upset with himself and Lord Walditch, yet the tingling playing through his body thrilled him. A gentleman should not be thinking such thoughts even though they tugged at his heart in the most agreeable way. The motions of his heart thumped in his ears sounded like a distant high-pitched drum. The tapping slowly became something akin to a soothing purr.

Regardless of the awkwardness, he felt, and the Grand Duke found himself inclined to press on. His eyes flickered, and then he cleared his throat. The sound started him, and he stumbled on the words that followed, “Lord Walditch, shall we continue our walk?”

“Yes, yes,” Lord Kurt replied, and he started to stroll again. Goosebumps rose on his skin, and he became conscious of his closeness to the Grand Duke. The urge to touch the hand swaying next to him turned into a nuisance. To save himself from an unforgivable act, he folded his hands behind his back.

“Some years, the river freezes and people go skating on it,” The Grand Duke changed the subject to hide his discomfort and to make the unease the Baron felt better.

The English nobleman glanced at the river, attempting to picture what it might look like when the river froze. In reality, he had to take his eyes from the Grand Duke to prevent any misinterpretation. His father would never absolve him if he offended the Tsar's nephew and jeopardized Earl’s undertaking for the crown.

“I know little of skating, Your Imperial Highness,” Lord Kurt replied as he watched the small swell of the current against the stone. “I can hardly imagine a river freezing so it would permit people to traverse it safely. Where I live, we may get one or two snowfalls a year. It rarely stays for more than a few days.”

“It will snow start snowing in November and continue into March. Saint Petersburg is not as cold as Moscow.”

“It sounds frightful. Humm . . . Sorry, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Do not apologize, Lord Walditch. I spent some time in Tbilisi and, while the summer is uncomfortably hot, the winters were pleasant.”

“I must wonder what it is like to live with a real winter.”

“We think nothing of it, as, no doubt, you do not think much of rain. My uncle complemented England when he journeyed there some years back. Where we have great forests that span the horizon, England has pristine pastures dotted with sheep. Two different worlds, I would say.”

“Are they different, Your Imperial Highness? Our nations are both vast empires. I can barely imagine what it takes to govern Russia. England has a large navy, and it takes weeks to get word from London to India. It must take months to reach the Pacific?”

“Much of Siberia is nothing but a forest with widespread settlements. My father travelled to the far ocean once. He said it was a tedious and tiring journey. I think if we had the steam engine and the track, it would make the trip much easier.”

“The idea of no horses frightens me.”

“Innovation is a good thing.”

“Perhaps. I am a cavalryman.”

“You are a pessimist?”

“Maybe I will be a realist when I ride a train.”

“I can imagine your excitement.”

“I can imagine my fear.”

“I would never call you a coward, Lord Walditch.”

A confused look crossed Kurt’s face and then sensed a foot press against his. A bashful smiled lit up his eyes, and he looked down as if studying the grass.

Bleyn smiled because he enjoyed the glimmer in Lord Walditch’s eyes and the light-hearted conversation. He spent most of the past two weeks receiving an education into his estate's workings and his father’s dealings. Daunting best described the venture because he felt confident, he saw only a tiny portion of a looming controversy. For the moment, he did not want to think about it as the pair passed Kyuglyy Pereulok walking toward a large grove of trees beyond the point where the stone walkway ended. Fewer people sauntered the street, and only one carriage rattled along the cobblestones. Workers hoisted large stone blocks from a barge tied up on the other side of the Moyka, where masons expanded a building. Soldiers in dark green uniforms marched up the avenue, and the officer ordered a salute as they passed the Tsar’s nephew.

The reaction entertained Lord Walditch because he noticed the Grand Duke did not like the attention. Many of the royals he saw fawned over such things and puffed themselves up like proud peacocks. The royal beside him revealed a humble nature that added to the growing infatuation Kurt felt.

“I want to see the steam wonder.” The Grand Duke commented with a little bounce in his tone.

“I would like to see someone skate,” Kurt replied with a little grin. To his dismay, he felt the distance between them lengthen, and he slowed his pace. “Alas, I do not think I will ever witness such a thing. When my father’s business is concluded, we will be returning to England.”

A previously inexperienced tinge of pain nicked Bleyn’s heart. He swallowed and said, “Duty calls.”

“Sometimes I―” Kurt stopped and then sighed.

“You have piqued my curiosity, Lord Walditch,” Bleyn noticed the look on the face of the man next to him, “Unless it is of a personal nature, and then I must beg your forgiveness.”

Lord Kurt’s brows pulled together as he if contemplated a grave matter, and then he answered, “There is no reason to forgive anything, Your Imperial Highness. You and I understand what we must do . . . And now I am being too familiar.”

“I asked, Lord Walditch.” Bleyn’s eyes almost pleaded.

“Your Imperial Highness, gentlemen do what we must, though, at times it―” Kurt glanced away as if he wanted to reply by could not.

Baron Walditch felt a pricking sensation roll up his body, and then he looked to the influential Russian royal standing two paces away. Proper British society, and most likely Russian, would not consider his thoughts tolerable on any occasion, but the young lord could not help himself. Before his mother’s death, he knew a difference in himself that position and power would not save him if he ever acted on it. He joined the army to please his father, and in the secret hope, the experience would tear the demons from him. The atrocities of battle and the repercussions he witnessed for indecency acts amongst the ranks gave Kurt the fortitude to overcome his weakness. Why did he find himself shaking?

Grand Duke Bleyn stopped where the wide street turned to the southeast. A narrow stone path continued along the natural riverbank toward the tall iron fence of the Summer Garden. Large shade trees cooled the air and offered relief by extracting the heat from their coats. Bleyn welcomed the refreshing chill but not the awkwardness of their conversation. In a low voice, he stated, “At the time, does it feel as if you act against your nature? The manner of our births dictates our actions, which, if you will excuse my boldness, I find restrictive.”

A fluttered raked Kurt’s breathing because sometimes he felt the same. The confidences they shared spoke of should not be indulged unless they are the closest of friends. Correctness argued he must offer a polite denouncement, yet he could not. The Grand Duke’s surprising frankness pleasantly enraptured him.

Two steps to the right and third in the form of a short half circle brought Lord Hummel to a halt. His right-hand dangle down to his thigh, where he pressed his hand flat against the soft, rich fabric. His left hand pushed into his pocket because he had nowhere else to put it. The head fell ever so slightly, and his eyes moved so that he saw a portion of the Grand Duke. His Imperial Highness stood there with his left hand grasping the seam of his jacket at the waist, and it looked like he held the other behind his back. From the angle, Lord Kurt could not see where the Grand Duke gazed, but some inner notion told him he glanced away to his right. He did not like the heaviness he felt in his chest, and then he turned her head to look at the Grand Duke, seeing the expression of frustration.

“I did not mean to be offensive, Lord Walditch,” The Grand Duke backed up, finding himself pressed against a large tree. The shame of his forwardness rose in his throat, and he found it difficult to look upon Lord Hummel. Thus, he pivoted away a quarter turn, and his foot slipped behind the Baron’s right shoe. 

“Your Imperial Highness, may I be so bold as to ask you something personal?” Kurt asked with a certain measure of apprehension.

The Grand Duke smiled and replied, “Yes, you may, Lord Walditch.”

The man on the left turned slightly, and his foot came dangerously close to Bleyn’s shoe. “Would you have walked this river if not for my presence?”

“In all honestly, I would not have.” Bleyn moved his foot ever so slightly, and his eye twitched when he felt it brush against another foot.

The motion next to his foot did not upset the Baron, as he might have expected. Blue eyes looked down, and then he stated in a low, almost intimate tone, “Your Imperial Highness, I do not find your comments bellicose though I am somewhat shocked. The conversation we are having is rarely offered when there is no long period of comradery and then only in private settings. I must be honest. I find your forthrightness most refreshing.”

Grand Duke Bleyn turned to look up at the taller man and offered a small smile. He timidly replied, “Lord Walditch, may I be so rash, as to say, while our acquaintance has been short, I find your company and candour most pleasant.”


	7. Lyonechovka

**27 July 1812**

“They dare call this little cottage a palace. Heavens, it barely has twenty-five rooms and too few footmen. There is not even sufficient staff for a respectably sized dinner party,” the lady grumbled. The polished and ornately engraved tea service reflected the dim light passing through the tall sitting room's windows. She collected up the silver tea strainer and turned it over in her fingers with a perplexed look. Her attention shifted toward the bright white china teacups painted with graceful flowers on matching saucers.

“Place this on the cup, and the hot tea poured over it.” Even though circumstances forced her into similar situations before, Lady Rachel Berry still looked mystified. The elegantly carved strain waved back and forth in her hand, and then it stopped. “Tedious. Where is that bone picker1?”

The silver utensil slipped from Rachel’s grip and clattered to the tray. She made a tsk sound and then turned to face the wide arch at the other end of the sitting room. The old butler wandered passed, carrying a tray, and she shook her head. In her usual, exasperated fashion, she voiced her thoughts, “You would think they would provide that man with a proper uniform. He looks like one of my grandfather’s servants, and the housekeepers are garbed like peasants. Why did I bring only my lady’s maid? At least they had the good sense to assign someone who could draw a decent bath and help me dress. I cannot wait until I return to the simple country comforts of Amblesey.”

The eyebrows of the gentleman who stepped under the portico arch shot up. Lord Kurt Hummel, Baron of Walditch, did not think his Russian experience to be lacking and found it intriguingly emotional. He spent many hours observing, and Kurt could say the staff's abilities did not elicit negative consideration. The servants did not emulate the superior British attention to detail, but they performed their tasks to high standards. The Lyonechovka Palace employed a staff adequate for its size as did the seventy-three room, sixteen-century manor of the Earl of Amblesey. In truth, nothing pleased Lady Berry, including the excellently crafted large pianoforte2 set in a large bay window.

Lord Kurt’s foot hesitated just above the polished wood floor as he considered spinning around and going for a walk. Unfortunately, the dreadful weather consigned His Lordship to an afternoon of listening to Lady Rachel’s exasperating ever-shifting humour. The shoe landed on the floor with a tap of the heel, and then Kurt smiled. The young Lord squared his shoulders and strolled over to the recently deposited tray. Picking up the disturbed strainer, he placed on the rim of the closest receptacle. Finger encircled the teapot's handle, and he poured the hot red liquid into a dainty china cup on a saucer. Regardless of what her Ladyship thought, the menial task took no great effort or education, and, frankly, Kurt enjoyed humble tasks. He often went into the kitchens to help himself or persuade the cook to teach him a few things. In his idle moments, he would sneak off to a little-used room with a large window to sew clothing for himself and the poor.

“Would you like some,” Kurt asked Rachel with a steady tone.

“Put that down, Kurt,” Rachel gave Kurt an annoyed look. “Where is that addle pate3.”

The Baron tilted his head to one side, “Lady Berry, that was unkind.”

“It feels like we are . . . Oh, never mind.” Rachel made a face when Kurt pick up the tea strainer, placing it on another elegantly painted china cup. “You are picking up filthy habits. That goosecap4 should be back by now”

“Rachel, pouring tea is not exactly fencing,” Kurt commented in an even tone.

“It is beneath you.” Rachel glanced at the window and the back at the arch. “Where is that bacon-faced5 boy.”

“Honestly, Lady Berry, who introduced you to such unbecoming language,” Kurt gave her a meaningful look. “I have to find this associate of yours and thrash him.”

She glowered at Kurt and snapped, “Stop being pedestrian.”

The silver teapot Kurt just picked up tipped, and steaming liquid flowed through the strainer and into the second cup. After he put the teapot down, he picked up a cup and saucer, presenting it to Lady Berry. In a light tone, he enquired, “Are you alright?”

“Why would not I be” Rachel snarled as she took the beverage.

Kurt’s brows pushed together, and he stated, “You are a little more petulant than normal.”

The hardness in Rachel’s eyes would have sent the servants scurrying, and then she huffed at the beverage. She set it to her lips, to the teacup and savouring the tasty English blend. She gazed at the man she called her brother and giggled. “I am being a bit much.”

“Yes, you are Lady Berry. I enjoy the presence of the tolerant Rachel and tolerate Miss Berry,” Kurt gave her a small smile and poured some cream into his tea.

“Why, Mr. Hummel, I should call the kettle black.” Rachel gave the man a cheeky little grin.

“Pot met kettle.” Kurt inclined his head to the lady. “Kettle meet pot.”

Rachel’s face darkened, and then they both started to laugh. In a quiet tone, she commented, “What a dismal day. It should be sunny and bright like my mood.”

Kurt would never dare say what he thought and swallowed his thoughts with a sip of tea. By the time his lips slipped from the smooth china, he had developed a less confrontational response. “Perhaps we should invite some of the people we met at the ball over for the evening.”

The sound of the rain striking the window vexed her, and she placed her tea on the sideboard. Regarding Kurt for a short moment, she said, “You might be my shining knight, but―”

“Rachel?” Anger flashed on Kurt’s face. How many times did he have to hear her complaining? With care, he placed his teacup beside Rachel’s and took Rachel’s hands in his. His head tilted forward, and he said, “I cannot pretend to understand what you truly feel. However, do you recall, Lady Trisdale?”

“Vividly,” Rachel sneered.

Rubbing her hand with hit thumbs, he softly said, “Then you know men face such matters as well.”

Lady Berry’s lips quivered, and then she sadly said, “It is a woman’s place always to be a rabbit.”

“Men face similar issues, though, I will admit, the obligations differ.” Kurt felt the heat touching his ears, and he turned away to study the large painting of a man on a horse over the fireplace. The middle-aged proud-looking man kept his back straight as his mount stood on two legs. Horses often did this when the rider pinched the sides with their heels in preparation to charge.

Lady Berry glared at Kurt as if she might become angry, and then she picked up her tea once more. She closed her eyes and drew in a short draft of and then said, “Would you like to sing with me?”

“I think it would make the afternoon pass and lighten the mood,” Kurt turned and smiled. “You play first. Your voice is lovely and mine . . . Well, we both have heard the snickering.”

“You and Lady Rose sound beautiful together.” Rachel stepped closer and laid a hand on Kurt’s bicep. “Please sing with me. It will do us both some good.”

“Yes, it will,” Kurt fondly smiled at his father’s ward. “I will allow you the first solo, and then I will join you for a rousing duet.”

The wide piano bench dragged on the floor, making a grating sound before she sat and adjusted the music. Her head leaned to the left, and then she turned the pages back to the beginning and then glanced at Kurt with a smile. Her fingers touched the keys, and then the grand instrument produced a stringing sound. Her digits moved quickly to the bouncy tune, and then they started to sing. The tones started low, and the rose matching the keys as her fingers moved past middle C up to the next octave. Her voice carried out into the hall, and some servants stopped to listen to the lyrics pronounced in a foreign language. The passing head housekeeper sent them running back to their duties.

Kurt noted the older woman paused to listen with a delightful little grin. His Lordship smiled, and then he remembered his duty to Rachel. Turning his attention back to the music, Kurt read over her shoulder, finding the bar she played. As he neared the bottom of the page, he leaned in and took the upper right corner between two fingers and turned the page. Sorrow stirred in his thoughts because the tune reminded Kurt of the rolling hills of home, his bed, books and his horse.

The winter wheat harvest would be complete by now, and the barley needed two or three more weeks. The kitchens would be busy putting down jams, bottling and drying down the fruit. Work during the summer never ended and the long days pleased Kurt. While he did not do the heavy work, Kurt would have to make an accounting of the ongoing harvest with the estate agent's assistance. Last year he fought Napoleon in Spain, and this year, the same man invaded a nation may never have visited if not for the war. He had misgivings before departing England faded into excitement and now the concern for an issue he faced.

Nimble fingers flipped the paper to reveal a page and a half to go. A dozen bars later, the ageing butler in his dark grey coat and a brown vest wearing a wig from a bygone era stepped under the arch. Not waiting for the song to finish, he officiously announced in satisfactory English, “His Imperial Highness, Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov.”

Kurt’s heart thumped double time as he stepped away to permit a surprised Lady Berry to slide along the rectangular bench. Once freed of the restrictive space, she dropped to a respectful curtsy, and Lord Walditch bowed. Blue eyes cycled up toward the brows as Kurt fixated on the man standing next to the butler. The candid words spoken in the Summer Garden echoed like tiny whispers in his head, tickling sentiment. The two men talked of nothing either considered embarrassing, and Lord Kurt learned to appreciate Grand Duke’s pleasant laugh. At the end of their agreeable hour and a half stroll, a tinge of discomfort hollowed the Baron’s heart when they pronounced their courteous goodbyes.

The challenge Kurt faced over the past couple of days involved constructing a personal message to His Imperial Highness to state his contentment with the time they shared. Every time he started to consider his words, heat rose in his cheeks, and then he became flustered. Rachel walked in on him during one of these failed moments, and Kurt excused himself and went for a walk. Lord Walditch strolled down the avenue to the Winter Palace and then retraced their footsteps along the Moyha Fiver toward the Field of Mars, hoping fate might repeat itself.

That evening Kurt and Rachel attended a soirée even though Lady Berry tried her best to feign queasiness as a means of escape. The dinner at the Swedish Embassy included Lord William Schaw, Viscount of Cathcart, the British Ambassador to Russia, Prince Sebast’ ya Ivanovich and his daughter with no Grand Duke insight. Now a young Grand Duke stepped into the room wearing a green velvet jacket, tanned pants, and mid-calf boots with a pleasant smile on his face.

“I was most enchanted when I entered the vestibule, Lady Berry,” Bleyn inclined his head. “You sing like a nightingale.”

“You are most kind, Your Imperial Highness.” Lady Berry blushed and curtsied once more,

With a short incline of his head, Kurt inquired in a quiet tone. “How may we assist you, Your Imperial Highness.”

“The rain outside seemed most disturbing, and I thought I would brighten my afternoon,” Bleyn softly replied, as those hazel coloured eyes scrutinized Kurt. “I see I have interrupted a recital. Please pardon the intrusion.”

“It is a melancholy day, Your Imperial Highness. We thought music might improve it,” Kurt politely responded though a shiver ran up his legs and into his back. As inappropriate as the thought might be, the glimpse the Grand Duke thrilled.

“Please do continue, Lady Berry,” the Grand Duke suggested with a smile. “Your voice will certainly charm the sun out from behind those dreary clouds,”

“Do you sing, Your Imperial Highness,” Rachel boldly asked.

Kurt’s brows furrowed at the impertinent question, and the Grand Duke chuckled. The deep sound sent a ripple across Kurt’s skin, and he struggled to return the smallest of smiles. Once more, he found himself in a garden where the tension Kurt experienced at the Kamennoostrovsky Palace where here wind carried off into the skies. The chorus of rustling leaves and the scent of flowers accompanied the sense of delight Kurt felt that day. He stood there on the stoop, watching the carriage pull away, feeling a pain in his chest he had not experienced since the death of his mother. 

“I do sing, Lady Berry,” Bleyn graciously replied, having spied Kurt’s stiff reaction. “Unfortunately, I am not practiced in songs sung in English.”

“What a pity,” Rachel purred. “I would dare say you would have the perfect tone to match mine, Your Imperial Highness.”

Pain rushed up Kurt’s chest with the outrageous manner Rachel flirted with the Grand Duke. The way Bleyn sweet smile irritated, but then, those soft eyes straying to Kurt. Could he? The thought flustered Kurt, who stepped away from the windows dim radiance to hide the blush in his cheeks. The demons of unholy thoughts raced in his head, dredging up the previously submerged sentiment.

“Lord Walditch, by chance, do you sing,” Bleyn asked as he stepped toward the pianoforte jealously guarded by Lady Berry.

“He has a remarkable voice, Your Imperial Highness,” Rachel stated before Kurt would come up with the words.

Unable to hide the redness in his cheeks, Kurt gave Rachel a quick glance and then turned to their visitor and said, “Lady Berry and I often sing together Your Imperial Highness.”

“I rarely able to hear songs sung in your charming language.” Bleyn’s eyes went back and forth between Rachel and Kurt, almost as if he pleaded. “Perhaps you would indulge me.”

Kurt pondered a single question―why would he press? Prudence demanded he should concede to a royal request, and calmly said, “I would be privileged, Your Imperial Highness, but first, we will permit Lady Berry the opportunity to finish her remarkable recital.”

Lady Rachel Berry beamed, and the returned to the pianoforte and asked, “Would you stand next to me, Your Imperial Highness.”

“I would think of no other place to stand, My Lady,” The Grand Duke walked over and stood next to the curving instrument and not where the lady might have expected. Blue eyes watched Rachel’s brow push together.

Grand Duke Bleyn tried to concentrate on Rachel, but his nervousness, a good nervousness, pricked through his body. Since returning from the Turkish war, Bleyn felt as if he swam against the flow of a river the spare to the heir should not endure. Then a tall British noble entered his life, forcing him to deal with those aspects of himself that may have given Prince Sebast’ ya the wrong opinion. While Bleyn remained a virgin in the lascivious sense, he could attest to having unnatural desires. During the spring of Bleyn’s fourteenth year, he happened on a stable boy of a similar age, pleasuring himself in the hayloft. When the servant looked up, he saw an elegantly dressed boy behind a pile of hay with his hand in his pants. The two met over the summer to satisfy themselves at a distance, and Bleyn learned to fulfill a driving need. One August day, Bleyn heard a commotion elsewhere in the stables and witnessed a horrible act̶̶―his father whipped and then sodomized the sable boy. Woodcutters found the lad three days later face down in a stream. Since then, Bleyn denied that side of himself, and now he felt himself shamefully breaking free of those self-imposed restraints.

The sound of moving paper caused Bleyn to blink, and his head drooped. The Baron of Walditch noticed the Grand Duke’s bashfulness, and then came the triumphant conclusion of the song. The two men softy clapped, and Rachel sat there accepting her accolades while offering the Grand Duke a please smile. For some reason, the applause felt final to Kurt, and his head drooped. Once the negotiations came to a satisfactory conclusion, they would be sailing back to England.

His Imperial Highness tilted his head toward the beautiful singer and said, “That was delightful, Lady Berry.”

“You are most appreciative, Your Imperial Highness,” Rachel replied with a bow of the neck since she could not curtsy from a seated position. “I can offer you another tune if you like.”

Grand Duke Bleyn glanced at Kurt offering an encouraging smile. “I believe you owe me a duet.”

Always a polite man, Kurt tilted his head and sat next to Rachel. Looking up at their caller, he said, “This is a country song Lady Berry, and I often perform. It is a bit unorthodox in that we play the pianoforte together.”

“It sounds positively delicious,” Bleyn replied as he walked around the backside of the instrument from which he could view both participants. Lady Berry sat closest to him, making his view of His Lordship effortless.

With a bashful smile, Rachel began to sing while Kurt waited for the appropriate moment to join in. The anxiety inflicting the Baron eased when he realized Rachel maximized the Grand Duke’s attention. The reprieve granted Kurt the focus to concentrate on the music rather than the droplets streaking down his back. After the first dozen bars, he placed his hands on the keyboard’s base section, and Rachel concentrated on the upper register. The play of their fingers roaming the keys mixed with the rich tones of Rachel’s voice adds to the piece’s tempo. A spike of fear tapped Kurt’s resolve, and then he took a breath and began to sing. The piece called for him to start in the low range, which he did with ease. As the crescendos mounted, he worked up the range beyond the typical male range.

Their audience found himself becoming emotional as Kurt’s beautiful countertenor voice effortlessly held the notes. The mind effortlessly separated the competing intonations, and His Imperial Highness discovered himself enticed by the male vocals. The extreme range Kurt demonstrated reminded Bleyn of the teenage boys who sang at the Isaakievshiy Sobor6 on Sunday mornings. A disturbing practice shattered the Grand Duke’s thought, and he held his breath. No, Lord Walditch had not have suffered the procedure imposed on choirboys in the hope of retaining the innocence of their voices. Linage demanded His Lordship must, one day, command a noble house, and that meant fate did not play that card. The three nobles in the room all shared a similar outcome to their lives. The need to properly marry, have sons to continue their noble lines and the prohibition of personal desire favouring the unwritten codes.

The throat constricted when Kurt reached for a tone at the edge of his upper range, and the horror he felt when he sang in public threatened to break free. Memory placed him as a boy singing for his mother’s friends and enjoyed their praise. He sang time and time again until the applause languished, and the ladies looked about with concerned looks. Then the slow recognition dawned at the teenager that he did not portray the vocal manliness expected of someone who would soon be a man, and one day an Earl. Ever since, Kurt shied away from singing in public even though Rachel and later Lady Marley urged him to accompany them.

Unaware of the feelings erupting inside Kurt, His Imperial Highness clapped at the end of the song. The male singer quickly stepped aside to let Rachel stand and then curtsy. The Grand Duke smiled and inclined his head to Rachel, and then he noticed Kurt’s stiff bow. His eyes rolled toward the English nobleman, increasing his perception that something made Kurt uncomfortable.

From the other side of the pianoforte, Kurt saw the sadness in those honey-brown eyes, and he averted his gaze. Did the applause hide the Grand Duke’s revulsion?

“You surpassed all my expectations, Lady Berry, Lord Walditch,” Bleyn offered with a smile, and then he kissed Lady Berry’s hand, sending a blush into her cheeks.

“Your Imperial Highness, can I beseech you for one limerick,” Rachel’s eyelids daintily fluttered.

The soft amber eyes shined at the lady and then passed to Kurt. In a deep, almost anxious tone, he asked, “If Lord Walditch would enjoy such an indulgence.”

“Of course, he would,” Rachel blurted out and then she remembered herself and flushed a little more.

Cornered by the lady’s enthusiasm and a desire not to insult their esteemed guest, Kurt stated, “I can do nothing but acquiesce to her Ladyship’s request.”

The lips on the right side of the Grand Duke’s face curled up to his charming eyes, creating an enduring lopsided smirk. Kurt’s breath hitched in his throat, and heat caressed his chest. Relief came when the Bleyn sat to the pianoforte with his back to his hosts. Lady Berry stepped next to the musical apparatus to admire the handsome man sitting at it. The Grand Duke smiled at her, and then his finger gently coaxed notes from the instrument and the words from himself. Singing softly in Russian, the gentle vibration in his chest gave him courage as the deep tones quickly became a haunting ode to the passions he could never share.

The hairs on Kurt’s neck stood on end as the rich tenor tones weaved the lovely Cyrillic lyrics into a gentle lullaby. The smooth sway of the man’s voice effortlessly carried the song through its phases, and Kurt’s saw falling snow. The thick, wet flakes clung to the trees and a metal railing supported by smooth, flat stone protected people from the drop into the waves. Strange ships without sails plied the water and, in the distance, stood a towering statue of a woman holding a flame in his outstretched hand. A man wrapped in odd appearing garments glanced down his left arm to where the fingers of someone’s right hand intertwined the digits belonging to his left. He looked up to see a surprisingly shiny jacket, a thick scarf and, finally, tender hazel eyes. The shorter man leaned up and kissed his taller companion.

Underdetermined emotion ungulated through Kurt’s body, and two fingers lightly pressed into his lips. A confused look from Lady Rachel startled Kurt, and his head fell to his side. How many times had he seen that look? Her unreliability, when it came to what she might say, kept Kurt on his toes, and, at the moment, he desperately prayed that she kept her peace. His head sagged, and he began to study the carpet. Unseen fingers curled up into a fist as he steeled his nerves.

Narrow blue eyes slid to his left, allowing Kurt to view the pianoforte. Lady Berry once more concentrated on their royal guest, and Lord Walditch deduced the admiration on her eyes. Kurt drew in a leisurely breath, and his eyelids slid shut. How could he be so idiotic to let his guard down?

A flourish of keys marked the end of the song, and then someone at the far end of the room spoke in Russian, “Wonderfully sung.”

The use of his native language startled the Grand Duke, who spun around on the bench in preparation to stand. He froze in place when he saw Kurt’s father and Baron Gyllenhielm standing in the arch leading to the broad central corridor. The two noblemen appeared equally surprised.

“Your Imperial Highness,” the Earl of Amblesey said in Russian after bowing. He then turned to his son and complained in English, “You should have notified me.”

The fluttering of eyelids revealed Kurt’s bewilderment as to why his father took such a tone with him. Even though the Earl schooled his voice, and his son and ward exchanged short glances. The presence of a Russian royal upset the Earl. What did his father and the Swedish envoy discuss?

“Your Excellency, please do not allow my unannounced presence to reflect on Lord Walditch,” the Grand Duke offered a defence in English. “I arrived at your door to the enchanting sounds of birds greeting the spring. I insisted they sing. Thus it is I who should offer an apology.”

No one would dare offend the Grand Duke by confronting him. From where Kurt stood beside the fireplace, he saw those amber-brown eyes twitch as if the Grand Duke stumbled on his thoughts. His father must have noticed as well because his attention swung to Lady Berry. A feeling of apprehension crept into Kurt’s chest because he knew what his father thought.

The Earl inclined his head and then said, “My house is honoured, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Bleyn smiled. “Baron Gyllenhielm, I am pleased to see you present because it makes my evening less complicated. I would like to extend an invitation to dine this Friday evening at Anichkov Palace at five o’clock. The invitation extends to the Baroness Gyllenhielm, Lady Berry and Baron Walditch.”

Kurt stumbled on his thoughts as he stepped away from the fireplace. Surely the Grand Duke would have sent a servant to extend the invitation.

“We would be honoured to attend, Your Imperial Highness,” the Earl formally replied. Convention in England determined dining ran on the strict clock set many years ago by a man history did not recall. The rules demanded they present themselves no earlier than a half-hour beforehand.

“The Baroness and I will be honoured, Your Imperial Highness,” Baron Gyllenhielm replied with a bow.

“I look forward to Friday, Your Excellencies,” Bleyn replied with a pleasant smile. “Now, I must be away. Lord Walditch, would you be so kind as to convey me to my carriage.”

Kurt bowed, even though his eyes went to his father, who undoubtedly thought the Grand Duke’s request a bit odd, “I would be honoured, Your Imperial Highness.”

The old butler held a heavy cape in both hands and softly draping it over His Imperial Highness’ shoulders before handing over his gloves and hat. He repeated the same for Lord Walditch, and then he opened to door, letting the cool air disrupt the interior heat. Grand Duke Bleyn stepped onto the stone porch and then walked down the wide steps toward the covered carriage. A young footman preceded him into the rain and opened the carriage door and lowered the step. Upon climbing in, the Grand Duke climbed in and adjusted himself.

With the heavy drops dampening his hat and cloak, Lord Walditch stood on the cobblestone wondering. His skin prickled with the uncertainty, and then the Grand Duke leaned out the door. A charming lope sided smile brightened the handsome man’s face, and then Bleyn said in a low, sultry voice, “Lord Waldtch, may I be so bold as to say, you have the most alluring tone. I would very much like to sing with you someday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Bone picker – footman (servant)  
> 2 Pianoforte – designates any piano dating from the instrument’s invention around 1700 and creation of the modern grand piano in the late 1800s  
> 3 Addle pate – foolish fellow  
> 4 Goosecap – a silly man or woman  
> 5 Bacon-faced – Full-faced  
> 6 Isaakievshiy Sobor – Saint Isaac’s Cathedral, Saint Petersburg


	8. Anichkov Palace

**31 July 1812**

Lord Walditch gawked at the residence Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov shared with the aunt, the Grand Duchess Katherine Pavlovna, and his mother. The white walls, pillars, and many sparkling glass windows glistened in the afternoon sun, slowly sinking toward early evening. Rows of liveried retainers stood to either side of the entrance, with a proud-looking gray-haired gentleman standing in front. Lush, well-manicured gardens lay on either side of the half-circle drive and along the façade of the huge structure. The young British noble scratched his head at how Bleyn described the regal building as an unexceptional city home.

A glimpse at Lady Berry, seated next to the Earl, caused a smirk to brighten Kurt’s expression. Rachel spent much of the early afternoon fretting over what she would wear and how her hair should look. She drove her lady’s maid off her feet since the invitation making alterations to her dress in an endeavour to make it match the earrings, tiara and necklace she bought for this evening. Her constant nattering about the Grand Duke’s visit irritated as did her speculation about who may attend. Kurt managed to talk her out of compelling the Grand Duke to sing a duet. Her fickleness did not surprise Kurt even though it upset him. He laughed slightly to himself. Regardless of all her remarks about the handsome Grand Duke, she fawned over Corporal Hudson every time he came into view.

The thought of Lady Berry’s intentions reminded Kurt of his less than blameless dalliances with a particular young man. The Grand Duke’s unexpected statement during his departure from the Lyonechovk Palace excited Kurt, who anticipated meeting Bleyn prior to this night. While it never transpired, Kurt could not get the sight of that sensual grin out of his mind. It melted Lord Walditch’s resolve down o the bottom of his feet, opening a secret gate to a forbidden place. Then skepticism set in. Societies contract persisted, and Kurt understood he must and will continue to be the consummate English gentleman.

The carriage came to a stop, and one footman opened the door while the other folded down the step. The conveyance lurched toward the stiff-backed footmen as the Earl of Amblesey disembarked. As soon as his two feet touched the ground, he adjusted his bright red uniform and tucked the triangular peaked hat adorned with a large white feather under his arm. He then took three sets and then turned to watch his son exit. Kurt wore a similar red uniform, though with less golden braid and accompanying hat without a feather. The honours pinned to their uniforms twinkled in the bright sunlight.

The instant he left the landau, Kurt turned back and offered Lady Berry his hand. Her new diamonds and the sapphires sparkled in the brilliance as she politely smiled at the gentleman aiding her. The lustrous cream colour fabric fell to the top of her matching shoes, hiding her ankles when she reached her full height. A delicate lace shawl draped over each elbow and around her back. Lady Rachel Berry looked positively stunning, and Kurt feared her efforts wasted on the Grand Duke.

The old butler offered a kind welcome and then escorted the guests past the assembled staff and through the door. The decorous man set a measured pace as he climbed two sets of short stairs situated between pale green walls and dark-green marble pillars. Upon entering the rotunda that displayed statues and masterful paintings, the senior retainer turned to the left into a wide hall. Two footmen obediently opened the large golden doors revealing a grand salon the size of a small ballroom set with couches and chairs. The candles flickering in golden and crystal chandeliers lightened the frescos painted along the length of the ceiling. Large mirrors set in golden frames set apart around the room reflected the sun's brilliance giving the green and cream-painted room a cheery decor. Large portraits of famous Russians and beautiful landscapes occupied the walls between the mirrors on the inside walls, and large windows faced the gardens behind the palace. A string quartet played in an alcove to the left of the high door at the end of the parlour. A Greek-style statue occupied the other alcove, with its male anatomy discretely covered to ease delicate English sensibilities. Baron and Baroness Gyllenhielm spoke with Viscount and Lady Cathcart and half-dozen ladies and gentlemen next to a large window overlooking the gardens. Groups chatted about the room, with the largest gathered around the settees in the middle of the room. The elderly men in uniforms spoke with s groups of elegantly dressed women in their fourties and fifties.

The butler stepped to his left when he entered the room and rapped his rod on the marble floor three times. In a booming voice, he made his announcements in Russian, and the crowd turned toward the ornate threshold. With curls tumbling down around his ears, their young host approached from the back of the room. The three English nobles acknowledged his rank as custom demanded, and the Grand Duke responded with an incline of his head. Tinkling raced through Kurt’s body when those amber-brown eyes fell on him, complemented by a longing to hear Bleyn’s smooth voice.

“Your Excellency, Lord Amblesey, my house is honoured,” Grand Duke Bleyn’s English enunciation bounced with excitement. “Your attendance this evening makes this intimate affair increasingly festive.”

“You are most generous, Your Imperial Highness,” the Earl replied with another bow.

“Lord Walditch, it is a pleasure to see you again,” the Grand Duke offered a smile.

Unable to dismiss the twinkle in the Grand Duke’s eyes, Kurt bowed again. The heat rising in his chest threatened to transit his neck, and averting his eyes helped extinguish the fire. He slowly straightened up and said, “Your Imperial Highness, I am privileged.”

A small, lopsided smile lit up Bleyn’s face. The Grand Duke comprehended himself well enough to know he smiled that way when he felt genuinely ecstatic. The remainder of the week proved difficult with family affairs, discussion about the French invasion and his uncle’s constant intrigues. He encouraged the invitees not to advertise the event, and unfortunately, Grand Duke Konstantin unearthed the party. Word arrived in the form of a terse note indicating that Bleyn’s older uncle, his wife, Prince Sebast'ya and Princess Katrina would be attending. The announcement sent the Dowager Grand Duchess into hysterics, and she demanded the entertainment’s cancellation. Hours later, a message arrived from the Winter Palace stating that Her Imperial Majesty, the Dowager Tsarina, contrived to have her son and his sycophants attend another function with her. The phrasing of the correspondence left Bleyn with the notion she commanded rather than suggested. His grandmother’s intervention added to his curiosity concerning her sudden interest in him.

Other than a few hours of unbearable torment to prevent an embarrassing reversal, the Grand Duke now allowed himself to bask in the success. The intent of his surprise visit to Lyonechovka had nothing to do with music but rather stemmed from a desire to walk with the young lord. The venture ended with a scramble to come up with a plausible diversion to cover any impression of impropriety. It took all that evening for a nervous son to bring his mother around to his scheme. The permission did not relieve his tension because he hurried to round up a diverse gathering of people who could converse in English. Luckily, his sixteen-year-old uncle, Grand Duke Nicholas, came to his rescue. The young royal relished the theatre, opera and balls, and his set varied and consisted of actors, artists and musicians. Surprisingly, Bleyn’s mother approved the guest list after adding a few people who shared her point of view.

With the invitations sent first thing in the morning, Bleyn got down to organizing the details of a formal meal. He barely put pen to paper when a caller interrupted him. The short conversation left the Grand Duke in a foul mood because he finally had confirmation of what Princess Natalya imparted to him on the dance floor at uncle Konstantin’s ball. His desire to confront the jackanapes1 quickly dissolved into careful consideration of the matter's complexity. The concept of a duel disgusted Bleyn at the best of time, and in this case, it would avail nothing. While he had no intention of letting the issue dwindle, his calculations needed to be adjusted. A lady’s honour hung in the balance, but Bleyn wanted this to ease the conscience of a certain British Lord. The anger in Kurt’s voice that night in the garden haunted Bleyn in ways he thought unfathomable.

“Lady Berry, welcome.” Careful to maintain his poise, the Grand Duke took her hand and gently kissed it. “I do hope you will find this evening a pleasant event. I designed it around the love the theatre and music. Many of my guests are the finest musician, dancers and artists in Saint Petersburg.”

Lady Rachel beamed as a hand fell against her chest. “Your Imperial Highness, I am most honoured.”

Soft light brown eyes turned to Kurt and then the Earl, and he said, “I do hope, this evening does not prove a bore, Your Excellency. I suspect you have had your fill of diplomats and generals.”

“Rather,” The Earl looked relieved and then he remembered who he spoke to and bowed. “Your Imperial Highness, I am sure this evening will be a pleasant diversion.”

“My Lady,” Bleyn presented Rachel his arm. “May I escort you into the presence of my mother, the Dowager Grand Duchess.”

Lady Berry placed her hand on the extended arm with a rosy blush in her cheeks. The Grand Duke hardly noted because his eyes found the blue oceans of Lord Walditch’s eyes. He held the gaze for a second and then started to walk. Russian nobles acknowledged the Earl and his family as they weaved toward the seating area in the middle of the room. Two long settees rested opposite each other on an angle compared to the room's length, separated by a rich oriental rug. People drifted toward the couch, where a stunningly beautiful woman with wavy dark hair dressed entirely in black quietly resided in the middle of the sofa by herself watching. Her attention slowly turned to the young man, adorned in a formal outfit styled after a uniform with honours situated across from her.

The ever courteous Grand Duke inclined his head to the gorgeous woman with a charming smile. In a confident tone, he pronounced in the language of the British Isles, “Dowager Grand Duchess Pamila Sofia Anderovna, may I present Lord Burton Hummel, Earl of Amblesey, Lord Kurt Hummel, Baron of Walditch and Lady Rachel Berry.”

The gentlemen bowed, and Lady Rachel Berry dropped into a deep curtsy. When he rose, the Earl stated in Russian, “May I offer the condolences on behalf of his Sovereign Majesty, King George of Great Britain, myself and my house.”

“You are most kind, Your Excellency,” the Dowager Grand Duchess replied sweetly in immaculate English. “I have been a bit of recluse the past weeks, and this evening may prove to be most enjoyable. We have with us such a diverse assembly. The conversation will, in no doubt, be refreshing.”

“It is not our intent to intrude, Your Imperial Highness,” the Earl softly responded in his native tongue.

“You are not intruding, Your Excellency,” the dowager responded in a demure tone. “I look forward to conversing with you as the evening progresses. It has been some time since I visited England.”

The sadness Kurt heard in Dowager Grand Duchess’ voice reached deep into his chest. Though no more than a boy, his mother’s death hit him hard, and he could fully understand the remorse of such a loss. The sorrow in Bleyn’s eyes did not go unnoticed, and for a moment, the Grand Duke looked small and alone. As much as he wanted to, Kurt, he could do nothing to ease the burden.

Bleyn indicated the young gentleman sitting opposite his mother and said, “Lord Burton Hummel, Lord Kurt Hummel and Lady Rachel Berry, may I present my uncle, Grand Duke Nicholas Pavlovich Romanov.”

The Hummel party politely exchanged pleasantries with the Tsar’s youngest brother, followed by introductions to the assembly's various participants of the evening. Lady Berry quickly became involved in a lively conversation with several performers while Kurt’s father found himself engaged with Grand Duke Nicholas and a couple of older gentlemen about hunting. Bleyn moved about the room, as a host should, and Kurt became engrossed in a discussion about painting with a Countess twice his age.

It did not come as a surprise when the Countess became engrossed in a side conversation. Left to his own devices, Kurt orbited the room, becoming involved with small cliques who caught his interest. All the while, he sought a glimpse of Grand Duke Bleyn elsewhere in the room. Then Kurt happened upon Rachel speaking to composer Osip Kozlovsky, and he stopped to offer his opinion. True to herself, Lady Rachel quietly enquired as to which lady caught Lord Walditch’s eye. With one innocent sentence, Rachel doomed him to only passing comments with the Grand Duke.

“Lord Walditch is it?” a woman asked from behind said in perfect English.

Expecting to find a young noblewoman who fancied herself a tremendous operatic virtuoso, it surprised Kurt to find he gazed into the Dowager Grand Duchess curious eyes. He immediately bowed, thinking he should back away.

Bleyn’s mother tapped the cushion next to her and recommended, “Please, join me, Lord Walditch,”

The young British Lord tried to hide his anxiety as he walked around to the front of the couch. He politely inclined his head and sat a respectful distance from the Dowager Grand Duchess. His Lordship faced her on an angle while trying to contain his panic. He innocently studied her as she studied him.

“My son speaks highly of you, Lord Walditch,” Her Imperial Highness commented in a low, almost hushed tone.

Sweat beaded on Kurt’s back, and he tried to suppress his alarm. The Dowager Grand Duchess gazed at him with a single-minded look that leeched into his mortality, searching for things in a manner only a mother could. The heart constricted beneath the ribs because she had brown eyes, only shades darker than her son. Love glistened behind the sorrow Kurt saw, telling him of her determination to hold onto her remaining child.

“The Grand Duke is a kind and generous man, Your Imperial Highness. He has shown myself and Lady Berry great kindness since we arrived in Saint Petersburg,” Lord Walditch replied with a small smile and an incline of the head.

“Yes, my son is generous to a fault.” The Dowager Grand Duchess skimmed the room spying the Earl of Amblesey, Baroness Gyllenhielm and the Countess Anna Mikhailovna, strolling the room chatting. “The shock of the death of his father and brother hit him hard, Lord Walditch. It appears he has found solace in your company.”

“I am pleased I may have been some assistance, Your Imperial Highness.”

“My son enjoyed arranging this little gathering. I must say I like to see him happy. For that, I am thankful.”

“You are most kind, Your Imperial Highness.”

“I may not be as gentle as you think, Lord Walditch. My son has taken on a great mantle, and I do not want to see him hurt more than he already has been.”

Then, as if some spirit protected Kurt, the butler strode out and requested the party adjourn to the dining room. The tightness in his chest did not prevent Kurt from offering the Dowager Grand Duchess his arm. In a soft voice, he asked, “Your Imperial Highness, may I escort you to my father so you may be properly conveyed to dinner.”

“By all means, Lord Walditch.” Dowager Grand Duchess laid her hand on the young man’s arm. “It is not my intent to be unkind. One day you will leave, and my son will be at a loss. His elevation has not been kind to him.”

A flush rolled up Kurt’s cheeks, and his head dropped a tiny bit. The truth stung harder than the tip of a lance driving into his flesh. Her Imperial Highness had every right to voice her unease, and he dare not rebuke her. His eyes flashed across the room, finding those sparkling amber-brown peered at him. The tiny grin on the Grand Duke’s face suddenly disappeared as if he saw something distressing. Bleyn’s heavy brows pulled together, and Kurt felt the lock turn. Duty, honour, civility and marriage awaited them both.

Kurt swallowed hard and then correctly answered, “I understand, Your Imperial Highness.”

The Grand Duke’s mother amiably smiled and, strangely, tightened her grip on Kurt’s arm as if she sought to reassure him. Lord Walditch bowed as Her Imperial Highness as he transferred her hand to his father’s waiting arm. To his right, Bleyn stepped forward, extending his arm to the Lady Berry with a sad look in his eyes as if he knew what just happened. Kurt noticed mother and son exchanging a quick glimpse, and the Grand Duke sucked in a heavy breath.

The high, gold embossed double door at the end swung open at the hand of two footmen who inclined their heads as the procession began. Lord Burton Hummel, Earl of Amblesey, proudly conveyed Her Imperial Highness, the Dowager Grand Duchess Pamela Sofia, followed by her son Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov and the Lady Berry. Grand Duke Nicholas Pavlovich Romanov, accompanied b Baroness Gyllenhielm, passed Kurt giving British Lord a curious glimpse.

The fifteen-course dinner passed as anticipated. Those at the table carefully restrained themselves from discussing topics, such as the present hostilities. Grand Duke Bleyn sat at the centre of the table with his mother. To his right sat Lady Berry, Baron Gyllenhielm, and to his left, on one side with his mother, sat the Earl of Amblesey and Lady Cathcart. Seated further down the elegantly appointed table, Grand Duke Nicholas had Lady Cathcart to one side and Baroness Gyllenhielm on the other. On the other end of the table, Lord Walditch sat next to Countess Maria Yakimovna. The linguistic aptitude of the guests carried conversations in Russian and English centred on the arts in both nations. Count Chakov, seated across from Kurt, lived in London for some years before the war and asked how the city changed. While Kurt may have visited the capitol on occasion, he did not know much about its intrigues. Regardless of his lack of knowledge, the conversation proved lively and distracting.

At the other end of the table, Princess Anisinonva swayed the discussions toward the opera to be performed the following weekend. They talked about how the Tsar would be in attendance, and he offered to host the British and Swedish contingents. Lady Berry rose to the occasion, speaking of how she would like to attend, committing the two Lords and the Swedish nobles to the evening. The presence of His Imperial Majesty guaranteed much of the royal court would be in attendance suggested an opportunity.

Each time Kurt glanced toward the centre of the table, he found the Dowager Grand Duchess or Grand Duke Nicholas eyes on him. Bleyn appeared tense, and the sight disappointed Kurt, who could easily imagine the reason why. Any hope the rest of the evening may have some measure of innocent excitement vanished.

When the ladies retired to their salon to talk and play cards, the men gathered in a large sitting room. Footmen circulated the room offering vodka, port and cigars while the diverse group of gentlemen discussed matters beyond the lady’s purview. Lord Walditch remained apart from Grand Duke Bleyn except when he and His Imperial Highness crossed paths. Their words remained concise and their time interrupted by the other Grand Duke, who remained almost exclusively at his nephew's side.

Inevitably, the French invasion came up. Count Uvarvo's commentaries to Grand Duke Nicholas overshadowed all other conversations as the volume rose. “The reports are old, Your Imperial Highness. I tell you, the general staff finds themselves in a dire predicament. General Barclay de Tolly's has retreated from Drissa, possibly headed for Vitebsk. We can be certain Ney is following.”

“General Kutuzov has to make a stand, or Moscow will be at risk,” Igor Sorokin, a ballet dancer, stated when he stepped closer.

Count Uvarvo’s face hardened, and he said, “Mark my word, he will stand at Smolensk.”

“What of Macdonald?: the rotund opera singer Yuri Popoff complained. “He now presses his advantage near Riga,”

Igor Sorokin whined, “If Riga falls, Saint Petersburg will be threatened.”

“I assure you, His Imperial Majesty is confident in the defence,” Grand Duke Nicholas answered assured the civilian.

“Uncle, I have heard His Imperial Majesty gathers further reinforcements for Riga at this moment,” Bleyn asked Nicholas.

“A force of cavalry and cannon departs on Monday. Two and a half regiments of infantry will follow, but it may take ten days to two weeks at a forced march,” Grand Duke Nicholas commented with a frown. 

“Then the city is hard-pressed?” Count Uvarvo shook his head rather than confront the Grand Duke.

“To the best of my knowledge, the French are having difficulties. However, the flow of war is always unpredictable,” Nicholas glanced about and then continued. “Lieutenant General Emme would like to convey the infantry and supplies down the coast to save time. Unfortunately, a French squadron plies the water off Riga, and we can muster only three serviceable frigates as an escort.”

“Then is it is serious?” Vladimir Chernyshevsky moaned. The elderly author downed his vodka before seeking more.

The Earl of Amblesey glanced to Viscount Cathcart and Baron Gyllenhielm. He then turned to the two Grand Dukes standing side by side and said, “Your Imperial Highnesses, may I enquire how many ships you will need to convey these troops?”

The words forced Kurt’s attention away from the three men he stood beside on the edge of the conversation. As he leaned forward to see better, he saw Grand Duke Bleyn glance his way. His amber-brown eyes widened as if caught by surprise, and then a tiny little smirk moved his lips. Kurt immediately turned away because he noticed Grand Duke Nicholas’ curious gaze. From what Kurt overheard, Grand Duke Nicholas had a better understanding of the war. The lack of knowledge made Grand Duke Bleyn look weak, and, from some comments he heard, Grand Duke Konstantin desired his nephew to remain that way.

“Your Excellency, it may not be expedient for us to reveal such knowledge,” Count Konev clearly stated with an edge of his voice.

Anger flashed across Grand Duke Bleyn, and he addressed the Count, “There are four British ships-of-the-line, one of them a man-of-war, at anchor as we speak,”

“We are technically at war with the United Kingdom,” Count Konev swirled his drink with a disappointed expression.

“We share a mutual enemy, Count Konev,” Vladimir Chernyshevsky countered in a stern tone. “If those ships can speed the transports to Riga, I say employ them.”

Count Konev growled at the intellectual, “You have no idea of what you speak.”

“Arguing will amount to little,” Grand Duke Bleyn advised. 

From where he stood behind Grand Duke Nicholas, Baron Gyllenhielm commented, “It would be a show of friendship should those ships assist in escorting your troops.”

Clearing his throat as if calling for calm, the authoritative sixteen-year-old nodded to the Swedish representative. Glancing about the assembly, Grand Duke Nicholas stated, “There are fourteen lightly armed ships at our disposal. Perhaps a few more by if we press. Unfortunately, they will not be able to defend against the French squadron.”

The Earl of Amblesey pondered for a moment and then glanced at Viscount Cathcart, who nodded. Turning back to the brother of the Tsar, he said, “The ships are here for my convenience and protection and are doing nothing for the war effort at anchor. If we can assist, we will.”

The two Grand Dukes exchanged glances, and then Nicholas responded to the Earl’s offer, “I will convey your offer to His Imperial Majesty upon my return to the Winter Palace, Your Excellency.”

The large gathering broke into smaller groups when the Grand Dukes turned away quietly, talking to one another. Lord Walditch spoke to Baron Gyllenhielm, who invited the father and son to visit Stockholm. The idea of seeing Sweden appealed to Kurt, who desired to delay events in England as long as he could. Duty called, even though his heart conflicted with his father's aspirations and the words of the Dowager Grand Duchess. Though he disliked it, Kurt appreciated her assessment of the situation. While she may not know of the investment the two men cultivated in each other, she understood their growing friendship.

At some point, Baron Walditch found himself studying the large portrait over the fireplace holding a glass of wine he barely touched. Engrossed in his ponderings, the interrupting words of a soft tenor startled him, “That is Ivan Danilovich, Grand Prince of Moscow five hundred years ago. I understand it is a good likeness recreated from an icon,”

“Your Imperial Highness,” Kurt quickly bowed as a blush altered his complexion.

Grand Duke Bleyn sipping the dark red wine from a gold-rimmed crystal goblet, and asked, “I do hope you are enjoying the evening, Lord Walditch?”

Regardless of the hurt caused by the words of others, Kurt politely replied, “It is most enjoyable, Your Imperial Highness.”

“I see that Lady Berry has been successful.”

“Lady Berry is in her environment.”

“I anticipate she may break into song.”

“A word of warning, Your Imperial Highness, she would seek your assistance.”

“I am warned, Lord Walditch.”

The Grand Duke’s chuckle sent a shiver up Kurt’s back. In a low voice, he said, “I have to congratulate you, Your Imperial Highness, on a wonderfully varied evening.”

“And we still speak of war.” Bleyn did sound enthusiastic.

“Men will talk as men talk,” Kurt replied. “The women prefer the arts.”

One of the Grand Duke’s eyebrows rose, and he asked, “And you?”

The question shocked the Baron, who felt the heat of blush again. Careful to choose his words, he responded, “I have seen enough war, but I will do what I must.”

The Grand Duke’s brows pressed together, and he looked as if he might say something, and then his uncle joined the dialogue. After a while, one Grand Duke ushered the other away, leaving Kurt feeling slighted. Staring at the glass he held, Kurt noticed his father stepping away from a group of gentlemen.

Wondering over to his father before someone else engaged the Earl, Kurt asked, “Father, may I have a word with you?”

“Yes, my boy,” the Earl replied in a soft tone as he steered his son to one side where they might have some privacy. “What is on your mind?”

“I would like your permission to travel with the fleet, should it sail,” Kurt spoke with purpose but not for the reason his father would suspect. “I believe it might be in our best interest if we acquired first-hand knowledge of the Russian tactics and strategies. Riga is far from Napoleon’s main force, so I think it would be safe. Corporal Hudson could come with me.”

The Earl scratched his chin and looked to the gentlemen headed toward the door held open by an attentive footman. His eyes went dark for a moment, and he stared up at the candles with a strange distant look. He seemed to nod and then said, “I cannot have Lady Berry left alone. Lieutenant Wensworth will go with you.”

“Yes, father.” Kurt sipped his wine and put it down.

“It should only five days at the most.” The Earl looked to the door with the same faraway look on his face. His hand came to rest on his chest, and then he started to walk. “I will speak to Prince Saltykov in the morning and seek his thoughts on the matter. We are meeting tomorrow with Baron Gyllenhielm.”

“Thank you, father,” Kurt replied with a grin. A little while ago, he wanted to delay his return to England, and now, it could not be soon enough,

Two British Lords joined the other men strolling out into the hall to join the ladies, but Grand Duke Bleyn dawdled behind. The words of his mother and the phrases he overhead did not settle well with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Jackanapes – an ape; ugly fellow


	9. Vaskilyevsky

**1 August 1812**

The rising sun beaming through a crack in the curtains cast a stark line across the empty bottle lying on the carpet next to the bed. The heavy gold-toned goose feather quilt mostly piled onto the floor on the other side of the bed, along with two pillows. The scullery boy who had the duty of quietly stoking the fire had a shock and quickly retreated with an astonished look on his thirteen-year-old face. He bumped into one of the chambermaids in the adjoining sitting room. Unable to get a word out of the boy, the twenty-something-year-old woman peeked into the bedchamber and gasped.

The valet arrived to see the blushing boy nattering to the flustered, red-faced woman. The young man, who happened to be of a similar age as the bed’s occupant, shook his head when he glanced into the bedchamber. Determine not to embarrass his master any further, the valet calmly offered instruction to the junior staff and shooed them away. His master’s attendant carefully closed the doors behind the departing staff and drew in a deep breath. He scanned the sitting room, noting a few things out of place, and then decided he best deal with the issue at hand. Finger grasped at the jacket lying haphazardly on the chair where it landed as he strolled toward the short corridor linking the rooms. One of the double doors hung partly open, and through it, he spied the Grand Duke lying on his bedding, exposing more of himself than an unwed woman should see.

Adjusting the black armband on the right arm of his dark blue livery, the blond servant made a face. Articles of clothing cluttered about the window where the curtains stood partly open. That answered the hushed discussion in the servant’s hall. This morning two ground keepers commented about a man standing naked in a window in the middle of the night. The valet cautioned the departing servants about being chatterboxes, but it took now stretch of the imagination to know His Imperial Highness would be subject to further discomfiture. With luck, the kindness the Grand Duke showed the staff would prevail, and they would reframe from spreading innuendo. His Imperial Highness’s gentle nature endured him to all he met, and he rarely lost his temper. However, his abruptness when the retired the night before surprised the valet. The Grand Duke threw his jacket at his valet and then went about drinking from the bottle.

The valet sighed as he stepped into the sleeping chamber, picking up the discarded jacket and stray stocking. He stared at the bed where the Grand Duke lay sprawled sideways and mostly uncovered by dishevelled bedding. However disturbing for the other servants, the nakedness the valet witnessed did not bother him. Over the years, the royal body revealed itself during bathing or when they swam as youths. His Imperial Highness took care of himself, as the shaft of brilliance cast shadows over a muscular chest coated in fine dark hair. Shades of gray and flesh tones highlighted the definition of his lower torso down to the hip joint and onto a thick thigh. His body twisted to one side and his head at the wrong end of the bed, where the Grand Duke loudly snored.

The valet’s thick lips pushed to one side, and he advanced on the bed. The servant drew a sheet over the Grand Duke before continuing with his morning duties. He went about collecting the remainder of the discarded clothes and straightened out the sitting room. Eyeing the clock as he puttered, he pitied his master, but the day must start. With little choice, he opened the drapes flooding the large chamber with bright light. The royal personage rolled over, and the blankets fell away, once more revealing the magnitude of His Imperial Highness’s morning wood. Releasing a moan that would scare a child after being told a horror tale, Bleyn slowly tossed himself away from the light toward the edge of the bed. A few choice words passed his lips as he stared at the intricate weave of the brightly colour rug. His eyes squeezed shut several times, and then he pressed fists into his eyes before dragging his fingers through his stubborn curls. His mouth tasted as if someone stuffed it with dirty laundry and his head pounded as if it stuck in a drum.

“Chamber pot!” The stricken man yelled, followed by a loud belch.

The servant scurried to the room's corner, where a porcelain jug sat on the cabinet's bottom shelf. He arrived in time to have his master snatch the vessel and throw up. Strands of wavy hair dropped around the man’s face as he discharged the contents of his stomach into the container occupied by other bodily fluids.

“Am I assuming, Your Imperial Highness is not joining his Dowager Grand Duchess for breakfast this morning?” Samov Evanich stated in an even tone devoid of emotion. The young, handsome blond man with pronounced lips gave the bed’s occupant an incredulous look.

“No!” Bleyn sullenly shot back. His hoarse voice echoed within the pot he held in front of his face.

The solidly built retainer blandly suggested, “Then you will have to do with bread and water this morning.”

“You are a rattle pate1 this morning, Sam?” Bleyn gingerly shook his head, and the pain brought an immediate halt to the motion.

“Your Imperial Highness set a wonderful altitude2 and poise this morning.” Sam suppressed a grin. “I suspect the staff will be blathering once those performing their morning duties recover.”

“What do you mean?” Bleyn looked up from the pot.

The valet returned a playful smirk as he picked up the cloth from the nightstand drawer. He offered it to Bleyn and said with a straight face, “Wipe your chin, Your Imperial Highness, and then take a look at yourself.”

A hand reached up for the piece of fabric, and then Bleyn’s eyes went wide. His head ducked under his arm, and the fabric tumbled to the floor when he stared down the length of his nakedness to see his engorged anatomy demanding its dawn's release. The smelly mixture in the pitcher sloshed as his grip failed, and it dropped short distance into Sam’s waiting hands.

“Good god,” Bleyn moaned as he threw a sheet over his expansiveness.

“I think he has little to do with this,” Sam commented as he placed the offending container next to the door before opening the windows to air the room out. “Other than endowing you, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Sam!” Bleyn yelled as the greenish twinge to Bleyn’s complexion surged read.

“I will remove the offensive chamber pot and bring a new one, Your Imperial Highness,” Sam smiled even though he felt for the Grand Duke.

“With expedience,” Bleyn pleaded.

The door opened and closed, leaving Bleyn grumbling into the quilt he pulled up over his head. The bile stuck to his lips soaked into the sheets, and the confined space made the smell worse. A loud groan rumbled in his throat as he tumbled toward the headboard and away from the vile odour trapped in the bedding. The pressure of his bladder suddenly overpowered him, and he bolted to the edge of the bed. He stumbled over to the washbasin and stood over it on an angle aiming his weapon. The suffering man revelled in the overwhelming sensation of relief even though the flow jetting into the bowl sprayed the nightstand and wall.

Even as he marvelled at the liquid tumbling from his body, and then he felt overly guilty. Samov Evanich, his loyal body servant, would never allow others to see more than what had already been revealed and would clean up this mess himself. As a child, Sam trailed behind his master on pudgy legs that matched his body at the time. He lost his paunch in his early teens and quickly became a private preoccupation for a boy who started to discover his sinful tendencies Bleyn would never facilitate. His childhood friend proved himself when he silently picked up after His Imperial Highness during his experimentation stage. To prevent embarrassment to his master, Sam ensured the plain cloth Bleyn used to tidy himself with found itself discreetly deposited in the laundry in the wing inhabited by the male staff.

Mortified that he voided himself into a washbasin but relieved that the pressure no longer threatening to burst his bladder, Bleyn tumbled back onto the bed. Two hands raked through his hair one at a time as he tried to settle the turbulent emotions and thoughts that brought him to his unpleasant state. The anger of the moment clouded his thoughts, and now he realized Lord Walditch remained beyond reproach. As for his mother, Bleyn did not know how to handle himself.

The warmth of the sun on his body told the Grand Duke he subjected himself to further ridicule, but he no longer cared. His nose scrunched at the lingering smells, and he mumbled, “Vodka and wine. I hate both.”

“I see, I am late,” Sam quietly commented from the other side of the room.

The sound started Bleyn, who swallowed the contents of his stomach rising in his throat. His head came up, and he looked down the length of his body lying spreadeagle on an angle. Sam stared at the washbasin, and the liquid splattered on the furnishings and wall.

“I could not wait,” Bleyn blushed red as red could be. His head fell back on to the messy pile of pillows with a loud groan. “Do you think my mother knows?”

“Without a doubt, Your Imperial Highness,” Sam appropriately replied, even though the Grand Duke permitted him to be familiar in private. He put the tray he carried with a fresh chamber pot and a plate on an unsullied table. He poured a tall glass of water, and half a dozen steps later, he offered it to the suffering man.

“Your too good to me, Sam.” The Grand Duke attempted to roll off the bed and came to a sudden halt. His feet dangled to the floor as he held his hand out for the glass.

Sam gently placed the crystal glass in the Bleyn’s hands and did not release it until he was sure the Grand Duke firmly held it. He appraised his master and then commented in a soft tone, “From the manner in which you treated me last night and your delicate condition this morning, I take it your evening ended acrimoniously.”

A single puffy dark eyebrow went up, and Bleyn swallowed a third of the glass in one gulp, followed by a sigh. “I owe you a heartfelt apology, Sam. Sorry.”

“If your uncle heard you say that to a servant―” Sam stopped when he saw the look on the Grand Duke.

“My uncle can . . . I don’t have to see him today. Do I?”

“There were three messages delivered this morning, Your Imperial Highness.”

“I might need to fall on my sword, Sam.”

“No, you won’t, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Did you hide it?”

“No, Your Imperial Highness. I can retrieve it for you.”

“No.”

“Excellent, I would not know how to explain the mess to your mother.”

The Grand Duke cringed and swallowed a large draught of water. The cool liquid slid down his throat, and he weakly smiled.

“I have to say I have not seen you like this since Moscow,” Sam commented after a glance out the window.

“Please, Sam, don’t remind me. I am already humiliated.”

“More than a black eye, a bloody nose and a broken arm with your―”

“Please do not remind me. What did you get in return fiasco?”

“The duties of your valet, Your Imperial Highness.”

“We are no longer seventeen,” Bleyn stated with a warm smile. He pointed at the tray. “Can you rip me off a piece of that? It might sop up the stuff in my tummy.”

“Your Imperial Highness, I would recommend a brawl. It has worked before.”

“It does give you something else to focus on.” The Grand Duke accepted a piece of dry bread and bit down on it.

Grand Duke flopped back on the oversized bed with a loud whine. “Okay. Sam, put me out of my misery. What does my uncle want?”

“Do I have your permission to break the seal, Your Imperial Highness?” Sam inquired as he rightfully should.

The withering Grand Duke growled, “Sam!”

A hand pushed into his right pocket, and Sam extracted a carefully folded piece of paper set with a seal. He snapped the wax and unfolded the parchment. To add suspense, he hesitated before reading:

_Bleyn_

_Meet me at the stables at nine._

_Nicholas_

“That was not that bad.” Bleyn painfully sighed, giving Sam an awkward expression. “What time is it?”

“Six-thirty, Your Imperial Highness,” Sam smirked with a wink. “Perhaps the second one is from the other uncle.”

Bleyn waved a hand, telling Sam to get on with it, and he chewed on the bread.

The second message looked much like the other but slightly larger. Sam’s nose curled up when he broke the seal, and then said in a hoity-toity voice:

_Your Imperial Highness, Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov_

_You are required to present yourself to His Imperial Majesty, Tsar Aleksandr Pavlovich Romanov and myself, at four this afternoon._

_His Imperial Highness,_ _Grand Duke Konstantin Pavlovich Romanov_

Muttering bitterly under his breath, Bleyn scrubbed his fingers through his rowdy hair. “Sam, you have better prepare my formal cavalry uniform and a hot, hot bath. Pack it so I can take it with me and prepare a riding outfit for me to wear.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness,” Sam bowed and turned away.

After a bath, a gallon of water, and a berating from his mother, the carriage's hard wooden wheels tormented its occupant by finding every rut the cobblestone streets. Grand Duke Bleyn arrived at the Winter Palace in a surly mood, and he tried not to take it out on the footman who stood there. The volume of his driver calling to one of the footmen caused Bleyn to cringe. The boy trotted over to retrieve the piece of luggage strapped to the back of the coach.

The officer in charge of the detachment of one hundred men drilling in the courtyard barely regarded the carriage until he noticed a member of the royal family getting out. Sudden loud orders brought the parade to a sudden stop, and they formed up to present arms. The sound of boots smashing on the cobblestones in unison shocked the Grand Duke, and his eyes immediately rolled. On any other day, the Grand Duke would have taken the time to review the troops, but today he single-mindedly marched on. Regardless of his discomfort, Bleyn nodded his acknowledgement to the officer-in-charge even as the Tsar’s Master-of-Horse kicked a young sable keeper into action. The fellow, who looked slightly older than the Grand Duke, escorted Bleyn to where Nicholas kept his favourite horse. An incline of the head and hand gesture directed Bleyn toward a door that opened into a tack room next to the stable. The harried Grand Duke folded his arms across his torso and leaned on the door frame to steady himself. The sharp corner of the wood dug into Bleyn’s shoulder but at least remained still.

“I wondered if you survived last night, Your Imperial Highness,” Nicholas stated as he looked up at his nephew while pulling on his riding boots. “My, you are a bit overdressed. I just wanted to go for a ride.”

“It might have taken me a few moments to get the drift of your note this morning, Your Imperial Highness,” Bleyn dryly replied. He turned to the stable hand in the hall and asked, “Can you find someone and tell them to bring a pitcher of water.”

“At once, Your Imperial Highness,” the liveried man ran off.

Nicholas stated with a playful grin. “My, you are feeling tender this morning.”

“Yes, I am a bit thick,” The nephew half-smiled.

“I have noticed old man.” Nicholas grinned.

Uncle Nicholas frequently amused Bleyn with his sincerity and opinion on events, and right now, he needed that. The new Grand Duke observed the glimpses the sixteen-year-old directed at his mother and Lord Walditch the evening before, and there sat the matter for this morning’s gathering. As a child, Uncle Nicholas often spent weeks at Anderovska, where they rode and spent long hours hiding away fishing. When the five-year-old Bleyn first saw his younger uncle, that voice in the back of his head said the child would achieve greatness. As he grew, the boy revealed a wisdom Bleyn found lacking in others of his age.

When Bleyn turned twelve, the seven-year-old followed him around the forests of Anderovska and with the son of the second groundskeeper and two guards. The two royal boys and the son of a trusted servant became friends. On Sam’s birthday, Bleyn usually snuck him something from the baker’s kitchen, and if Nickolas turned up, the three of them shared. Grand Duke Deyven Pavlovich Anderov admonished his son and brother, explaining that servants had their places and did not have the common sense to trust. Afterward, his mother told her son to find a better hiding place and then patted him on the cheek before sending the lad on his way.

Nickolas gave his nephew a sideways look and frowned. “From your look, I am going to assume Konstantin sent you a wakeup message.”

“Yes, it was rather pointed. I am required to present myself to my uncles at four. In the third, Prince Sebast'ya expressed his displeasure that he and Princess Katina remained absent last evening.”

“Ah, the long road to wedded bliss.” Nicholas gave his nephew a rueful grin.

“Your day will come, uncle.” 

“It already has. Even with the war, I am to meet Princess Charlotte of Prussia.”

“I wish . . . Well, it is not a gentlemen’s place to wish. We are of the blood, and we do what we are instructed.”

“You should know, His Imperial Majesty has accepted the Earl’s proposal. Konstantin was not in favour.”

“Now, that makes me happy.” On one front, it did, but then it complicated matters.

“I had them saddle, Pegasus for you this morning.” Nicholas noticed the abrupt change in Bleyn’s expression. “After what I saw you drinking last night, I thought you would like to enjoy a less spirited ride. I was pondering crossing over the river and riding along the shore to blow the cobwebs from her soggy head.”

“I take it we will have an escort.”

“Eight of His Imperial Majesty’s finest are waiting for us as we speak.”

“Do you ever wish that life could be simpler?”

“It is what it is. I want to talk to you away from prying ears.”

Bleyn ducked his head. “You too?”

“Perhaps.” The teenager threw his arms out wide with a big smile on his face. “Perhaps not. We will wait for that water, and then we will be off. I had a skin filled with wine if you are up to it.”

“No, thank you, but hold onto it.” Bleyn rolled his eyes, wishing the water would hurry up while pondered what the summons. “I may need it if my older uncles have some ridiculous idea.”

“Don’t look at me, nephew,” Nicholas shrugged. “No one pays attention to me.”

Bleyn gave his uncle a look and then started to laugh.

Nicholas chuckled and said, “Once we are over the bridges, we can head up to Petrovskiy Park.”

“We can gallop across Vaskilyevsky to the gulf.”

“Trying to avoid any chance of running into my brother?”

“Why make an effort? He has someone trailing me.”

Nicholas looked concerned and shook his head. “He wants to make sure you are not sneaking off to visit Prince Natalya.”

“Ha, ha,” Bleyn replied, and then he looked to the door hearing the clinking of glassware on a tray. He smiled because his mouth still felt like old laundry.

The troop of ten crossed over the Bol’shaya Bridge and rode west around the construction of the Menshikov Palace's foundations. Workers cleared several acres and busily ripped down nearby structures for landfill and to make way for future gardens. Hordes of labours dug into the marshy soil in preparation for the laying of another wing of the massive groundwork. Elsewhere, stonemasons worked the enormous squared off granite blocks piled on the thousands of tons of coarse gravel poured into the gaping hole over the past year. The current Grand Duke considered Anderovska satisfactory, but once completed, the palace would be more expansive and opulent,

The two Grand Duke, preceded by four-armed cavalry soldiers and followed by four more, rode along the wide promenade. They trotted alongside the construction site, passing tenements and businesses on the other side of the avenue. Carriages and men on horseback moved in either direction while pedestrians strolled from here and there. The sight of the cavalry opened a path for the party that encountered a disturbance at a street corner.

Bleyn released his reins shortly after they crossed the Tuchkov Bridge, spurring his mount into a gallop. Yelling his enjoyments when he broke away from the troop, he raced along the gravel lane with docks and warehouses on one side and a field on the other. Fishermen and ordinary people scatter before the horse and those thundering after him. He tried to ignore the dull ache in his head as he rode at speed to the end of the unevenly spaced wooden buildings on the waterside of the gravel lane. The resounding bellow of one of the soldiers caught his attention, and Bleyn slowed his exuberant stallion. He turned his head to look over his shoulder while the front ranks of the escort caught up and surrounded him.

“Damn it, Bleyn,” Nicholas shouted as he slowed his mount next to his smiling nephew. “Do you have any idea what could have happened?”

“Nothing,” Bleyn answered with a laissez-faire attitude.

“Not you, old man,” Nicholas rolled his eyes. “If you had been hurt, those people would have suffered.”

A hand roughly rubbed Bleyn’s cheek, and his head drooped. His mother taught him to be a good man, while his father tried to push him into living to the excesses position offered. Bleyn knew he had that good heart, and he did not want to hurt these people intentionally. He planned to make reforms at Anderovska that his father would never have considered. The people who worked the twenty-five thousand acre estate and the farms surrounding it deserved better, and Bleyn had the power to do something. While he could not go as far as he would like, he remained determined to make their lives easier through modernization and more ethical practices.

“I just wanted to feel the rush of the wind in my hair,” Bleyn moaned as he watched the escort forming up again.

“You will never get that bird’s nest back together.” Nicholas giggled. “Believe me, Bleyn, I understand. Now, let us cross the Smolenka and then I will race you.”

Bleyn nodded, and they rode together along the stone reinforced stone embankment. Here boats pulled up to the muddy shore or wooden docks unloading the items those living in the palaces took for granted. The Grand Duke wondered if any of his relatives understood the hardships the common people endured. His father’s wishes led Bleyn to engage in manual labour, but his sire would have demanded an end to it he knew how popular it made his son. Bleyn enjoyed feeling his muscles straining, and when his father noticed his son grew muscles, Bleyn told him he practiced with the guards. Not exactly a lie, Bleyn did go there to left heavy objects and train in combat styles.

Once the horses plodded over the final bridge, Bleyn glanced at his uncle, who gave the soldiers the signal. Without a hint to his nephew, Nicholas kicked his horse, and it reared. Not to be outdone, Bleyn urged Pegasus on as he raced after his uncle. The soldiers spread out, forming a perimeter around the two royals as they galloped out into the scrublands dotted with clumps of small trees. Unmoved by the salty wind barreling at them from the Bay of Finland, they raced for two miles before Bleyn heard his uncle calling to him.

Bleyn pulled back on the reins and turned Pegasus about to see his uncle approaching at a slow trot. He called to him, “Getting tired, youngster?”

Nicholas glanced to the corporal in charge of the escort and gave him a hand signal. The sound of the surf beating on the shore and the wind rustling the brush made it hard to hear. Exactly what Nicholas wanted, he said to Bleyn, “It is time we have that chat.”

The throbbing returned with a vengeance the moment Bleyn sat up in the saddle. He blinked and then said to his uncle, “I wish you would not.”

Eyeing the locations of the escort, Nicholas urged his mount closer, making the conversation more private. “Bleyn, I am concerned and not just regarding your infatuation with the Baron of Walditch.”

Bleyn’s eyes went wide, and he felt his cheeks redden as a wave of fear prickled through his body. He defended himself by saying, “Have you been listening to gossip?”

“No, Bleyn,” Nicholas grinned at his nephew. “I have noticed it with my eyes.”

Bleyn hid his expression by leaning forward to pat Pegasus on the neck. Dealing with his father and brother taught Bleyn to deal with the bouts of anger everyone suffered from time to time. If he spoke with Konstantin, an argument would have ensued, but he knew Nicholas. Finding it hard to find helpful words, Grand Duke Bleyn swallowed his pride and let out a loud puff of air. Still hovering over the horse's side, he stared out into the Gulf of Finland, where he saw a ship headed to the west.

Nicholas watched, and then honesty said, “Nephew, you have nothing to fear from me.”

Sitting up straight, Bleyn studied his uncle and replied, “I know you will not report me to Konstantin if that is what you mean.”

“On the contrary, I want to warn you about him.” Nicholas paused, and the look on his face showed the battle with his thoughts.

Uncomfortable with the way his uncle scrutinized him, Bleyn demanded, “Out with it.”

“Bleyn, this is not easy, but I think it might help.” Nicholas half-heartedly grinned. “I know about the stable boy.”

Grand Duke Bleyn ‘s chin dropped, and he grabbed the saddle to keep himself upright. The colour drained from his face, and his eyes went wild. If Nicholas knew, who else did? His eyes widened as his temperature rose.

“Bleyn, Bleyn, calm down.” Nicholas implored, “My brother knows nothing, but I fear your mother may.”

“How can you be sure?” Water glistened in Bleyn’s eyes, and he glanced down at the scrub under his horse. “Saints preserve me.”

“If he knew Bleyn, you would have been disgraced long ago.” Nicholas urged his horse a little closer to his nephew and reached to touch his arm.

Deeply ashamed, Bleyn fought his emotions and sadly said, “You must think less of me?”

“No, Bleyn. I do not. I may not understand, but I will not speak ill of you.” Nicholas squeezed his nephew's arm. “Such desires are not unknown in the family, though I have never had the yearning to participate.”

“How did you find out?”

“I saw Bleyn.”

Heat blossomed in Bleyn’s chest, spreading out into this body. “I am so ashamed.”

“Never be ashamed around me, Bleyn.” His uncle offered a warm smile. “I will not condemn. I only need to look to cousins Igor and Sasha to know what may happen.”

“Igor is disowned, and Sasha is miserable with that woman,” Bleyn moaned.

“They were foolish, Bleyn. Do not look to them as an example of what you should do. You know what is expected of us.”

A loud sigh passed over Bleyn’s lips. “I know that, more than ever now.”

“I know this Lord Walditch excites you.” Nicholas pulled his hand back. “Would it not be wiser to lay your Cane upon Abel3 with someone who will be sailing off to some distant island? Do not place too much stock in this British Baron, Bleyn. It will only lead you to pain.”

The heavy brows over Bleyn’s eyes pressed together with his uncle’s crass forwardness. Until this moment, he never considered lying with Lord Walditch. At least consciously, he had not. Flushing a deep shade red, he said, “Believe me, I know.”

“Good.” Nicholas waited, and when his nephew looked up, he smiled. “We will leave that subject there. I trust you to do what is right.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Bleyn quietly replied. It felt as if a weight fell from his shoulders, but his heart remained heavy. Why could he not feel like this with his intended, Princess Katrina?

Nicholas’s horse sidestepped, and his uncle peeked at the escort at a distance. The palace walls had ears; thus, Nicholas often had delicate conversations in places like this.

“Why is it you have always been kind to me, uncle?” Bleyn suddenly asked.

The question caught Nicholas off guard, and then he smiled. “Would it surprise you that I like you, old man? You are the closest person I have to a friend in the family, nephew.”

Grand Duke Bleyn fondly returned the smile. “I feeling is mutual, Nicholas.”

“You must know I do not trust my brother, and neither should you. He and your father were involved in many schemes that later involved your Kirill.”

“And now the spare is the Grand Duke.”

“I will do what I can to help, but I fear my brother and his trained cockroach.”

A wearing man looked out to sea and the west. Bleyn liked Princess Katrina, but for appearance's sake, he preferred Princess Natalya in his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Rattle pate – whimsical man or woman
> 
> 2 Altitudes – The man is in his altitudes, i.e. he is drunk.
> 
> 3 Lay Cane Upon Abel – sex between men


	10. Grebnoy Basseyn

**5 August 1812**

His mind criticized the weather, and the heart credited it to the words of a Dowager Grand Duchess. The Grand Duke’s reticence in the days following the dinner left the Baron of Walditch in a dull atmosphere as it had after the ball. Last night he lay in bed, unable to sleep, revisiting the same paragraph as his passions contradicted themselves. Sometime after midnight, his thoughts cleared, and he realized how his sentiments demoralized him. The idea vexed Kurt, and he closed his eyes a soft honey brown gazing back at him like a forlorn puppy. He must have fallen asleep because when his eyes fluttered, he discovered the book slumped on his stomach. Three fingers tickled his cheek, where he faintly recalled the moist tongue of a curly-haired terrier lapping at his face.

He reclined beneath the warm blankets for a while, assimilating the sensations identifying that, from this point on, each time he saw a dark-haired terrier, his thought would be of Bleyn. Saint Petersburg opened his mind to how life could be, and if he had the freedom to choose, he recognized what he would do. The idea both frightened and enthused him mostly because it would be new. All his life, someone told him what to do and what he should do as he grew older. On Sundays, the paster spoke against sin, and now the young man considered breaking the fourth and tenth commandments. His mother and father told him to be faithful to the church and not to commit sin. At one time, he thought he believed at tiny bit, and now Kurt doubted he would experience the Reconciliation of the Penitent.

A loud knock on the door startled the Baron from what rest he managed to obtain. Hudson poked his head in and passed on the news the fleet would be sailing with the afternoon tide. Lieutenant Wensworth and Kurt met with the Earl in the library while Hudson packed what the Baron might need. Lady Berry interrupted and moaned about Kurt not be available for the opera Princess Katrina invited them to this Friday. She whined about wanting Kurt’s opinion on the fabric for her new dress and then stomped out, complaining about impending disaster when the Earl put her foot down.

Lady Berry’s reaction confirmed Kurt's opinions of her fragile nature. Bringing up his concerns quickly became a discussion about arranging a suitable marriage for Her Ladyship. Kurt reminded the Earl that her father wanted his daughter to marry for love. The senior of the two Lord Hummels voiced his desire to keep his word, but time ran out. At the age of twenty-two, Lady Berry reached her prime, and if she did not fall in love soon, she would be referred to as a spinster. Kurt defended Rachel by bluntly stating his mother verged on thirty at the time of his birth.

The statement dulled the dialogue but did not end it because it led a father’s desire that his son must propose to Lady Rose immediately upon their return to Amblesey. Fortunately, the butler interrupted by announcing the carriage’s arrival brought the mostly one-sided conversation to an end. A quarter of an hour later, the Earl and his son stepped out into the inhospitable wind of an improving Saint Petersburg day. The notion the conversation of marriages would continue once seated in the covered carriage made Kurt apprehensive. Fortuitously, the Earl became consumed by his inner thoughts allowing Kurt some peace as they travelled to the military basin on the southwestern side of Vaskilyevsky Island.

Once over the Neva, Kurt broke the silence by bringing up the subject of improvement to Amblesey he wished to undertake. Saint Petersburg gave him some ideas of how to upgrade the southern vista and the river banks to help prevent floods. The Earl questioned the need, and Kurt stating several of the estate’s buildings needed substantial repairs. The discussion faded when dozens of masts appeared on the horizon like a barren forest in the dead of winter. A mile distant, twenty-four-merchant vessels finished loading supplies and boarding the twenty-five hundred troops destined for Riga. Three Russian frigates and four British ships waited just offshore while a fourth Russian frigate lay alongside the dock awaiting an important passenger's arrival.

The sight wrenched at a young Lord’s heart, dredging up the feelings he abandoned a want, be it only superficial, in favour of a contrived obligation. He brought the idea of travelling with the fleet on the spur of the moment. He thought it the best recourse at the time, but since then, Baron Walditch felt cowardly.

The Earl glanced away to regard his son, having noted the distance look. Fostering a practiced, diplomatic tone, he broke the silence and commented, “Are you having second thoughts, my boy?”

“No. I am excited, father,” Kurt recognized his father’s tone and lied. How could he tell his father he ran from a handsome Russian royal who condemned him to a life of knowing true love did exist?

One of the Earl’s eyebrows shot up as the Earl gave his son a circumspect glimpse. Not convinced, the Earl added, “Has Saint Petersburg been that hard on you?”

“In some regard, yes. Ever since the ball, I have been on edge and thinking there is nothing we can do.”

“I have seen this game played before, and I have to praise Rachel for keeping her wits.”

“You might want to weigh your purse, father.”

“If it distracts her, then I can absorb it.”

“I am worried about the opera on Friday,” Kurt glanced at his dad.

The Earl looked bewildered. “I do not understand why?”

“Prince Sebast'ya Ivanovich is not a decent man,” Bluntly stated.

The Earl glanced at his son with furrowed eyebrows as he gave his son an incredulous look. “What makes you think so?”

Prince Sebast'ya initiated apprehension deep within Kurt, leaving him with the sensation of a serpent slithering in the shadows. When in inserted himself into the Grand Duke Bleyn’s introduction, Kurt felt an uncomfortable ripple caress his skin. The sight of his eyes chilled the soul, and the sound of his voice sent a shiver up the Baron’s back. For a second, it felt as if an ethereal part of him tried to escape by stepping away and then he saw those honey eyes. Unlike the Grand Duke, who overwhelmed Kurt’s dreams, the Prince lingered in the shade as if he haunted him through the ages.

The thought of the Prince made his fingertips tingle as an odd, ugly sensation rolled up the arms and into Baron Walditch’s torso. His stomach rolled over, leaving a foul taste in Kurt’s mouth, and his bones felt cold. The Baron pinched eyes shut to encourage ease, and a soft brown hue flashed on the back of Kurt’s eyelids. A dream-like form of a puppy yapped at the ugly sensation threatening the contents of his stomach spreading warmth through Kurt’s chest.

Kurt sighed and then realized he hesitated in answering his father. Slightly embarrassed, he frowned and then replied, “I do not know if you have many dealings with the Prince, but he is Grand Duke Konstantin’s creature. You have been occupied with the negotiations, but Rachel and I have enjoyed invitations to various events.”

“Have you been listening to gossip?” The Earl knew his son and his desire to listen to things he should not.

“Father, you told me, gossip holds truths,” Kurt countered, knowing why his father asked. “Prince Sebast'ya Ivanovich is feared in some circles. I have heard of his excesses, and I would consider him a dangerous man.”

“You must have other evidence to corroborate your hypothesis.”

“Observations for one. Your proximity to the Grand Duke Konstantin may not have made it obvious. From a distance, he orchestrated the gathering, managing both Grand Dukes with finesse.”

“I was told he assisted in the balls organization.”

“On attended the dinner for you, at Count Rusistov’s, he put on airs above his station and proved willful with the ladies. When the men were alone, he became crass and loud. Many of the gentlemen fawned over him as if he were the Grand Duke himself.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Yes. Like the ball, he surrounded himself with Napoleon sympathizers.”

Burton Hummel held his hand up as if saying to his son, no more of this. The look on his face, however, reflected concern and anger. Kurt understood his father prided himself on his examination skills and would not have missed the Prince’s hovering at the Grand Duke’s side. Lord Walditch suddenly felt awful for abandoning his father to face a den of wolves who would like nothing better than seeing the war with Russia and England continue.

The Earl of Amblesey cocked his head to one side and said to his son, “I know what you are thinking, Kurt, and you have to go.”

“Yes, father.” Kurt lied. The colour of honey consumed him, and Kurt knew it to be wrong even though he could not resist.

“France would like the war between England and Russia to continue.”

“What I am embarking on is important, and the information gained will he London to determine the levels of British assistance. Committing a British army to fight would be a monumental process beyond the transportation and supply requirements. Great Britain has the navy to do it, but it would undoubtedly stretch resources in Spain and throughout the empire. The expansionistic madness of the disloyal North American colonists needs to be considered.”

“They are opportunists.”

“With Napoleon's urging. France wants to build an empire. Russia needed to defend an empire. England wants to retain its dominance of the world naval power and her empire. It all comes together in a gigantic dissolution of generations of able-bodied men.”

Suddenly self-conscious about his rambling, Kurt fell silent and looked out the window and closed his eyes. The carnage witnessed in the aftermath of a battle would never be forgotten. Many who perished on foreign soil did so because the army provided an income and a small pension for their wives. Those at Kurt's social level bought ranking positions that offered a measure of protection, but the men marching in lines faced the guns head-on. A Lieutenant remained with their tops in a charge, and Kurt saw bodies ripped to pieces by hurling cannonballs. A lance in the leg proved that battle did not always bring quick deaths. He suffered with his men, even if he rested in relative comfort compared to the rank-and-file soldier.

Lord Burton Hummel remained quiet for a moment and then nodded, “You mentioned you wanted to return to the front, and honestly, I am happy you did not.”

A son’s blue eyes fell upon his father, and he quietly replied, “I want to do my duty.”

“You are doing your duty, my boy.” The Earl of Amblesey gave his son a thoughtful look.

Kurt ducked his head and responded, “Dancing to music is different from facing the guns.”

The older man with a freshly shaven head laid a hand on his son’s arm. “Do not get me wrong, Kurt. I am happy to see you on the dance floor. I have only one son, and I want to spend as much with you as I can.”

The sentiment his father expressed shocked Kurt because the Earl rarely showed his emotions. A small, shy smile pulled at Kurt’s lips, and he recalled the spontaneous hug his father gave him before he boarded the ship for Spain. He fondly peeked at his father and said, “I have enjoyed the time we have spent together as well.”

The Earl cleared his throat and stated in an officious tone, “Tsar Aleksandr is an honourable man, and he wants this alliance. However, I have noted that while Grand Duke Konstantin supports His Imperial Majesty, the man has his own agenda.”

“He is pro-French,” Kurt commented in a slightly quieter tone.

“Yes, he is.” The Earl considered his words, and then he looked into his son’s eyes. “Be careful, Kurt.”

“I will, father,” Kurt politely responded even though the tone of his father’s voice worried him. “You need to be careful as well, and look out for Rachel. She is hiding her pain behind a façade.”

“She is a clever young lady, Kurt. You should give her more credit.”

“Will you be attending the opera on Friday?”

“I must. Is Corporal Hudson a capable man, beyond the advantages of his uniform?”

“Hudson is a discerning gentleman, and though I would not want him to defend her honour if it comes to it. He does not always thoughtful concerning his actions,” Kurt replied. “Corporal Hudson proved himself in Spain to be trusted as my batsman1. He just needs direction from time to time.”

“Noted.” The Earl spoke to his son with a strange distant look where his eyes rolled up toward the roof. “I may have some additional responsibilities for him to attend to.”

Goosebumps dotted Lord Walditch’s skin, and he did not like where his thoughts carried him. After quitting Stockholm, Kurt noticed how his father conversed with himself more often. People often talked to themselves to sound issues out, and Kurt did that himself. The current situation felt different, though Kurt did not understand how. A rational exploration of events and the pressures of the ongoing negotiations prudently pointed toward a reasonable cause. Honour and sacrifice bound them both, overshadowing individual wishes and needs. Kurt would do what he must, just as his father would.

Lord Kurt Hummel, Baron of Walditch, peered out the window as the carriage turned parallel to the stone buildings of the naval complex at Grebnoy Basseyn. Transports rested against the wharf lashed two abreast with planks raised up and over the railing between vessels. A couple of hundred troops stood in neat lines on the docks waiting to make their way up gangplanks to join those already settling in. Some of the lightly armed merchant vessels had already pushed off and laid on some sail as they moved off to join the warships.

A single well-armed ship occupied a spot halfway down the docks with a large Russian flag flying from its stern. The cavalry peeled away when the carriage approached His Imperial Majesty’s frigate Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan, and when they stopped, the driver jumped down to open the door. The five officers standing by the gangplank turned their attention from their discussions. One wore the blue uniform of a British naval lieutenant, and the rest wore Russian black. In the background, the crew busied themselves as if they prepared to sail, climbing their riggings.

A blast of cool, salty air brought a smile to Kurt’s face as he alighted after his father. He examined the activity, thinking he could be in the shipyard on the London Eastside where he witnessed the ships loading supplies for distant fronts. The sounds of British accents behind him caused Kurt to look behind where two marines in the bright red jackets customary to British military service offloaded the wagon under the supervision of Lieutenant Wensworth. They piled two chests, their kitbags and weapons into a pile and stood about waiting. One of the Russian officers called three crew members who ran to collect the baggage.

Third Lieutenant Waythers of the His Majesty’s Ship Narcissus approached the carriage accompanied by two Russian officers and smartly saluted the Earl. The officer then said in French, “My Lord, may I introduce Baron Kuznetsoy, the fleet commander. Baron Kuznetsoy, may I present His Excellency, Lord Burton Hummel, Earl of Amblesey and his Captain Kurt Hummel, Baron of Walditch.”

“Your Excellency,” the baron spoke in French after a half bow. “I have been instructed by His Imperial Majesty to coordinate with Captain Stoole. I have assigned an officer to the Saint Vincent as requested. We will be departing shortly after Baron Walditch boards.”

“Thank you, Baron Kuznetsoy. Baron Walditch will be boarding shortly,” the Earl of Amblesey replied.

Baron Kuznetsoy inclined his head, and he turned back to join the other Russian officers. One of them climbed the gangplank shouting orders.

The Earl watched for a short while and then looked to Third Lieutenant Waythers. In English, he commanded, “Inform Lieutenant Wensworth of what he needs to know, and have Baron Walditch’s escort settled.”

“At once, your lordship?” the third lieutenant inclined his head and stepped away.

Kurt glanced at his father and asked, “I thought I would be travelling with the Saint Vincent?”

“Our ships will not be entering Riga. Our hosts are satisfied to have use help protect their relief force, but we are still technically at war.” The Earl reached into his inner pocket and withdrew an envelope with the Imperial seal offering it to his son. “His Imperial Majesty does not want any mishaps. These are his instructions to anyone you may come across, giving you his permission to observe the Imperial army's movements. Kurt, you are not to become involved in any fighting.”

“Yes, father,” Kurt took the message and put it in an outside jacket pocket with a concerned look directed at his father.

“As you can see, there is an officer from the Saint Vincent on-board. The Russians have no officers who understand English and several who speak French. Conversely, there is a Russian officer assigned to the Saint Vincent for the same reason. This was done to prevent communication issues due to different signal codes.”

“A wise move.”

“It was Grand Duke Nickolas’s suggestion.”

“He will be a fine man, father.”

“That is still to be seen.” The Earl paused and then went on as if his train of thought returned. “If there is a confrontation with the French off Riga, the Narcissus and the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan will remain with the transports. The rest of the fleet will meet the French, and we will show them what the British and Russian can do together.”

“The French will run,” Kurt proudly stated.

“The French are as dangerous on the water as they are on land, Kurt,” the Earl cautioned. “Baron Kuznetsoy and Third Lieutenant Waythers will transfer to the Russian flagship once you have cleared port.”

Baron Walditch peeked at the two red uniformed marines boarding the frigate. He smiled and then said, “Light bobs2 rarely witnessed the sea battle, and neither have I. The idea of possibly being involved in one, even from a distance, is exciting. The Saint Vincent has one hundred and twenty guns, and seven additional vessels more than double that number. General Wellington has a third of that number in Spain. The strength would boggle a bird-witted3 mind.”

The Earl grinned, “I can understand the thrill of a sea battle. I was on the Caledonia off Spain when they encountered a French squadron. Ships moving in lines doing combat is quite different than commanding thousands of troops on in a field. The ocean's vastness gave the huge ships room to manoeuvre, and like the army, the weather plays a huge role, as it did that day.”

“You never told me, father,” Kurt sounds impressed.

“I do not like to think of it too much,” Lord Hummel glimpsed one of the frigates gun ports. The experience of the frantic surge of a ship riding the waves with their guns shaking the decks turned out both terrifying and equally exhilarating. That day he witnessed the ferocity of ships engaging at close quarters and the subsequent massacre. Cannonballs and grapeshot racked the decks splintering wood and bone alike, colouring the wood red. While it amazed him how much damage a ship could sustain, the aftermath proved as horrendous as a land battle. A father hoped his son would not have to take part in a burial at sea.

A shudder rolled up Kurt’s back, and he asked, “Father?”

“Do not let your enthusiasm overpower you, Kurt,” his father cautioned with a small smile.

“Yes, father,” Kurt’s voice rose a touch as he looked at the frigate in front of him. One of the masts looked new, and fresh wood replaced a long stretch of the railing, and the scorching up the side of the rear cabin spoke of fire.

“The tide will not wait forever, and Baron Kuznetsoy must be anxious to get underway.” The Earl said with a hint of sadness in his voice. “You should be in Riga in two days hence. Give yourself self to three days to investigate, and then the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan bring you back to Saint Petersburg.”

“I had better make haste.” Kurt swallowed. He wanted to hug his father, something they did when he shipped to Spain, but it did not seem appropriate in Russia.

“Be careful, my boy.” The Earl touched his son on the arm with a weak smile. “Come back to me in one-piece.”

“I will see you in a week, father.” Kurt smartly saluted the senior officer and then turned toward the gangplank. After a few steps, he looked back to see his father climbing into the carriage while the cavalry formed up for the returned trip. His heart pinched, and then he drew in a deep breath as he climbed up the rest of the way.

Lord Walditch paused at the top of the gangplank and glanced once more back to see the carriage completing a full turn. The Earl’s head popped out of the window, and his son waved at his father. A board smile brightened Lord Walditch’s face, and he exhaled and turned to view the crew busily preparing for departure. Seamen handled lines and passed long poles with metal tips over the side toward the dock. Several gangs of four men gathered along the length of the railing with long poles awaiting orders. On the other side of the ship, someone yelled, and Kurt walked to the centre of the deck to see long boats rowing away from the ship, hauling lines binding the two. Orders from the raised deck at the ship's stern had the crew at the railing pushing at the poles while the oarsmen strained their backs. The volume of shipping in Grebnoy Basseyn required the frigate to move sideways to clear the double birthed merchant ships.

The speed by which the heavy ship pulled away from the dock amazed Kurt. Returning to the dockside railing, he watched his father’s escort vanish around a storehouse in the distance. Loneliness struck, and he sighed before looking into the rigging where men bravely hung over the yardarms preparing to release the sails. His eyes passed up and down the deck seeing piles of ropes, barrels awaiting stowing, and the hatches down to the gun deck. The sails might provide the inertia to propel the vessel, but its power lay beneath his feet. The fear of the guns affected everyone, whether they marched in straight lines across the land toward the enemy or on a ship with nowhere to run. What would be more merciful, being trampled by a cavalry charge or drowning?

Bellowing orders had had the men hauling the ropes in from the longboats and the long wooden poles stowed. All hands raced to their stations as the upper sailed unfurled and ruffled in the breeze. The canvas suddenly caught the wind with a snap, and the ship lurched. Someone yelled commands from the back to the deck, and the order ricocheted along the ship's length. Those men released from other duties climbed to the booms in preparation for laying on more sail.

“Your Lordship,” someone speaking English interrupted Kurt’s thoughts.

The Baron of Walditch turned to find a freckled-faced, red-headed man stating a few feet away with his hands behind his back. He wore a British naval officer's customary blue coat with golden braid extending from his jacket's buttons across his ribcage. The tall triangular hat sitting on his head angled toward his back. The scar running down his mid-thirties face gave him a measure of distinction his tall and slight frame did not.

“Third Lieutenant Waythers, is it not?” Kurt questioned as he turned to face the officer.

“Yes, Your Lordship,” the officer replied with an incline of his head. “I was sent to tell you that Lieutenant Wensworth and his men have been bunked together in a cabin close to yours, and your trucks have been stowed. Baron Kuznetsoy requests your presence on the poopdeck. The Russians have a tradition of drinking a toast at the beginning of a voyage. It has something to do with luck.”

“Let us not play with luck, Waythers. We may need it if the French have divined what we are doing,” Kurt nodded and started to walk through the crew with the Third Lieutenant trailing behind him. Some of the rough-looking men glared at their young passengers but went back to their business when someone yelled at them.

Baron Kuznetsoy stood by the railing at the aft of the vessel’s upper deck beside midshipman, holding a silver tray with several decorative porcelain cups and a bottle. The Russian noble faced the harbour behind them, speaking to the ship’s commander and the senior officers. Most wore pale blue with triangular hats similar to those of the British navy, while three wore black. The sight of the large red, white, and blue flag of Russia flowing lazily from the rigging made Kurt think of the Royal Navy's bright red ensign and his apprehension. While Baron Kuznetsoy appeared to be an honourable man, Kurt could not be sure. Two former enemies sailed under a flag of truce to face the former allies of one of them.

“Ah, Baron Walditch, there you are,” Baron Kuznetsoy spoke in French to his British counterpart while offering an uneasy smile. “Welcome aboard the His Imperial Majesty’s frigate, Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan. She is a sturdy ship that survived an engagement with two French corsairs a week ago. May I present Captain Ivanov. He will see you safely to Riga and back to Saint Petersburg.”

“I am honoured, Captain,” Kurt replied in Russian. He peeked at the sails noticing a transport pulling out behind them. “May the wind be with us, Captain.”

“It is the hope of all who sail the seas,” someone said in English from behind.

A shiver ran up Kurt’s back as he turned to see Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov dressed in an ornate black uniform take off a triangle hat. He picked up one of the mugs and offered it to Lord Walditch with a polite little smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Batman – British officer’s personal orderly, attendant
> 
> 2 Light bob – A soldier in the light infantry
> 
> 3 Bird-witted – Inconsiderate, thoughtless, easily imposed on.


	11. Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan - Ko Dnyu Pobedy

**6 August 1812**

A pronounced jostling of the ship stirred Lord Walditch from a restless slumber, and his eyes roamed as he lay there. The sailors stacked the two small trunks bearing the Baron’s clothing, personal necessities and books against the wall next to a small built-in desk. The slender door opened up against the foot of the bed, with an eighteen-inch wide aisle between the sparse furnishing. The second officer, who usually resided there, sat on the bed's edge to use the half desk to keep up the ship’s logs and study charts. Getting up to use the chamber pot proved to be a task in a cabin lit by a single low flame oil lamp on a rolling ship. He struck his head on the swinging metal lantern twice as he leaned against the wall to keep himself steady. The warm liquid splattering onto his nightclothes did nothing to ease a sullen mood, and after he changed, he lay down to reacquainted himself with the bumpy mattress.

The twinkle in the Grand Duke’s eyes conflicted with the aloofness in his tone. The finger that slid over Kurt’s thumb when he offered the Baron the cup sent a shiver up his spine. An air of tension occupied the respectful distance the two men kept between themselves, creating awkward moments at the frigate’s fantail. Standing there became increasingly difficult as the ship worked its way out of the man-made harbour and into the open sea. Once they crossed the threshold, the ship’s captain pronounced the toast to Poseidon, and Kurt swallowed a good quantity of vodka. Lord Walditch would have preferred scotch.

A hasty retreat became impossible, and as the afternoon progressed, the nobles, captain and senior officers chatted. A lieutenant commanded the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan as it ran along the coast for a few miles until it approached another Russian combat ship. Baron Kuznetsoy reminded the officers of their orders before climbing over the railing and down into the longboat that would ferry him and Third Lieutenant Waythers to the flagship.

With Baron Kuznetsoy’s departure, the uneasiness between the royal and a noble increased. They watched the merchant ships coming out of the harbour while chitchatting about how the fleet would operate with the commanding officer. Once the fleet assembled, it sailed into the Gulf of Finland, with the transports forming three lines. The warships pulled into a column on the troop carrier's right facing the open sea. Their course took them between Vormsi Island and the mainland into the Väinameri Sea and then to the Gulf of Riga. Hugging the coast provided the slowing moving, lightly armed ships the opportunity to make a run for the protection of the coast towns should the need arise.

The officers and their guests gathered in the captain’s cabin, given over to the Grand Duke for his comfort, for dinner. The wood of the port hull looked fresh and unstained, hinting at the speed of the repairs. Holes and dents in the beams testified to that fact something metal smashed into it. The table they sat at appeared to be new, along with three of the chairs and the bed. The food proved tasty, and the conversation focused mostly on the war. Grand Duke Bleyn spoke nothing about his reason for being on board and offered platitudes when asked.

Rolling over onto his side, Kurt discovering another lump and slid his feet over the side of the bed. He watched the light from the flickering oil lamp on the wall until the toll of the bell announced four. Knowing he would get no more sleep, he stood and struck his head on the lantern. Holding the swinging lamp with one hand, he stumbled over to trunks and extracted a book. He tossed the leather-bound tome onto the bed and grabbed the lantern, turning up the flame. Settling on the bed, he opened the book and squinted to read the tiny letters. After a few paragraphs, he paused and looked at his cramped abode. He shared a cabin some three feet wider with Lieutenant Wensworth on the Saint Vincent. The bed might have been slightly more comfortable, but now he thought the Lieutenant’s lodgings to be superior. The subordinate officer slept in a hammock suspended from a beam that swayed with the ship.

That voyage from England had many tiny events to occupy the Baron’s time, and he remained uncertain about this one. Lady Berry needed calming, and he had his father to speak with while Corporal Hudson followed Lord Walditch around deck. The young soldiers laughed as they talked about what they wanted to do after the war. Kurt knew his fate and his doubts. Finn expressed wild plans from travelling to distant colonies to become a farmer. The man revealed a knack for building and fixing things while in Spain, and Kurt knew it would aid him in life. Lady Berry waited for her prince charming to be chosen for her, though she forever reminded the Earl of her father’s last wishes. Her primary focus became singing and a desire to perform on stage, which Kurt knew a husband of position would find inappropriate.

By the time the bell tolled five, Kurt had decided he might as well get up. Pulling on some likeness of adequate clothing, he stepped out into the narrow corridor with one hand on the wall to steady him and a jug in the other. Looking to the right and the left, he saw a soldier standing in front of the captain’s cabin door. Kurt did not recall seeing members of the Imperial Guard when he boarded, and their presence did not become known until after setting sail.

A barrel on the deck to the left of the door provided Kurt with water, and he retired to his cabin to clean himself and shave. Putting on the same uniform jacket as the day before and cream coloured paints, he went out to stroll to the ship’s bow. The muttering of three sailors piqued his interest, as did the thick fog bank on the west and the wisps to the east. The night watch scanned the horizon and kept the rigging tight as the frigate glided along in gentle swell in the centre of a line of warships. The Russian frigates took the lead, and when he looked back, Kurt saw the Narcissus trailing directly aft and then the massive shape of the Saint Vincent. The other two British ships trailed to the rear and slightly to the east, with the last warship lingering behind the merchants.

The large rolling waves of last night no longer tossed the ship as the fleet approached the passage between the mainland and a large island. Two Russian frigates put on more sail to run ahead to survey the other side of the choke point where fog held the possibility of ambush. A good general used such conditions to hide his numbers and position on land, but on water, it added another dimension―decreased wind. Baron Walditch hoped to reach Riga with little disruption, including those posed by the Grand Duke. Ignoring those soft amber brown eyes peeking at him down the length of the table threatened to assassinate his willpower.

The wind at the bow proved cold, and Lord Walditch found it invigorating. His head cleared of his troublesome thoughts, and by the time he traversed the length of the frigate for the third time, he felt more himself. Lord Walditch stopped on the quarterdeck and laid both hands on the railing, and carefully leaned over the back of the ship watching the waves. The sight of the first orange rays of the rising sun playing on the sails of the fleet with an eerie radiance reminded him of home. During the long winter months, he would sit by his bedroom window, looking out in the garden’s long reflecting pool watching the hues in the water. When the days warmed sun rising higher in the sky, he rode every morning to the top of the nearby hill with a grand view in all directions. Mother nature forever created new marvels, and he wished he could capture it on a canvas before it faded.

The wisps of fog played on the sails and rays of sunshine, and Lord Walditch smiled. The brilliance fluttering within the motions of the sails conjured up the imagination of a child listing to his mother reading tales of fairies, witches, dragons, ancient divinity and other unnatural entities. As a child, Kurt loved the myths, and now he saw them manifested in the fantastic sight he now viewed. He chuckled because the local pastor admonished the Countess for tempting a child with the wickedness of demons. Once he came out into society, Kurt discovered that many influential people dabbled in religiously unseemly activities and cavorting with carved stones became the least objectionable. His London friends abandoned inviting Baron Walditch to the debauched clandestine events held in shady places following dances or dinners. He preferred to situate himself with those who held seances or dabbled in the divination with crystal balls, cards, and pendants. A flirtatious young lady piqued his curiosity when she deposited a star-shaped quartz in his hand. Kurt instantly found himself amazed by the strange tingling carousing up his body.

Thinking of handling quartz encouraged the strange tingling he experienced whenever the rolled crystal in his fingers. His head slowly rose toward the sun's increasing warmth, and the mist rolling up among the ships in the distance reminded Lord Walditch of Stone Henge. A strong inhale accentuated the pleasant calm that heightened his senses permitting him to smell the faint hint of burnt wood mixed with salt air. The odd mixture of scents pleased the Baron, and then a flowery odour drifted in from behind the Baron.

“I see you could not sleep either,” a familiar voice spoke in English.

Goosebumps rose on the back of Lord Walditch’s hands at the sound of a delightful tenor voice. He bowed with a slow turn and then said, “I am not a sailor, Your Imperial Highness.”

A little smile pushed at the Grand Duke’s lips. “I am a land lover who does not like my bed to move.”

Kurt returned a hopeful little grin before looking to the eastern horizon. The adorable man cursed him, but then Kurt enjoyed the satisfaction in his company? In a low voice, he said, “I dare say it will be a pleasant day, Your Imperial Highness. That is unless that fog moves in.”

“It will make for smooth sailing, Lord Walditch.” The formality in the Baron’s voice disturbed Bleyn even though he understood. “Though I dare say, a bit eerie.”

Lord Walditch peeked at the thick cloud hovering over the water in the west. “The fog bothers you, Your Imperial Highness.”

“I have never liked the fog. It is damp.”

“What do you like then?”

“Sitting by a frozen lake watching the wind pick up the snow and carry it for miles. It rises and falls and whips around. It is beautiful.”

“You are a romantic?”

The Grand Duke startled and then chuckled. “Perhaps I am. Fog feels stagnant, and the snow has life.”

“When it does snow at Amblesey, it is breathtaking.” Kurt nodded with a pleasant smirk. “The voyage from England was pleasant, for the most part. We caught a bit of weather in the North Sea that jarred us, but once we reached the waters off Korshamn, it smoothed out. Skirting Copenhagen had us all on edge. Dense fog held the Danish side of the straight, and we followed the Swedish coast hoping we remained unnoticed.”

“Why would you worry?”

“They come out in dozens of tiny ships and buzz around like bees.”

“Hard to shoot at with these big ships. England captured most of it in eighteen hundred and seven, did they not?”

“I was barely of age at the time, Your Imperial Highness.”

“My father praised Napoleon.”

“Are we unfortunate to be born in these times?”

“Oh?”

“What I mean is, we both have heard of nothing but war. I think it is a sad state of world affairs.”

Bleyn looked upon the Baron’s profile highlighted in orange and yellow on an angle and sighed. “I feel something has been lost, and I will never get it back.”

The sorrow in the Grand Duke’s voice stirred a memory of Kurt walked along the river. Once more, he saw a monstrous statue rising from an island, and this time he heard a story of freedoms Kurt did not understand. Logic laughed because they, Bleyn and himself, did not live in this land of make-believe, but in a world where the compact affected their every action. Kurt knew his father broke the rules for him. Did anyone break the rules for the Grand Duke? Of course not. The Grand Duke ranked second in line for the throne and may one-day command an Empire.

Premeditated motion turned Kurt, so he faced the Grand Duke at a slight angle. The purpose of Bleyn’s expression perplexed him, and he respectfully asked in a quiet tone, “Your Imperial Highness, may I be so bold to ask you a personal question?”

One of Bleyn’s brows went up because Lord Walditch’s eyes conflicted with his mastered persona of correctness. Someone once told him that the orbs that allowed people to see the colours of the world also open the soul to observation. The endearing flicker in the Barons’s blue swirls brought a soft blush to Bleyn’s neck. In a low volume, he replied, “I am nothing but appreciative of your inquiries, Lord Walditch.”

“Why are you on this ship, Your Imperial Highness?” Kurt enquired with a hint of shyness as he stepped away from the fantail.

Something told Bleyn the Baron avoided his real question. Nonetheless, the Grand Duke nodded and replied, “I did not want to speak before the captain of Tsar’s wishes, Lord Walditch.”

“You need not explain, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Nor will I at this time, Lord Walditch, though I believe we may be employed in a similar enterprise. I will admit, I fully expected you to be travelling on one of your vessels.”

“My father insisted.”

“Wisely understandable.”

“Are you expecting to find yourself in some measure of hazard, Your Imperial Highness?” Kurt happened a glance toward the three guards hovering at a respectful distance.

“A precaution His Imperial Majesty insisted upon, Lord Walditch.” The Grand Duke glanced over his shoulder to see two soldiers standing off to one side with the officer-in-charge. “I surmised their presence would make you uncomfortable, Lord Walditch. I ordered them below decks.”

A peek toward Lieutenant Wensworth standing near the stair reminded Kurt of his father’s worries. His thoughts, however, did not prevent a cheeky little grin brightened his mood. “It amused you.”

The Grand Duke gave the British Lord a one-sided little smirk. “Honestly, yes.”

The pink building in the Grand Duke’s cheeks had not gone unnoticed by the British noble who felt the heat rising in himself betrayed his motives. Trying to remain proper, he asked in an even tone, “Your Imperial Highness, what is it like to have been born, as you were, into a royal household. I ask because my family is less than royal. Queen Elizabeth granted us the title for service to the crown. It must be different knowing that one day, you may wear said crown.”

The question shocked Bleyn but not in an incorrect manner. Bleyn bowed his head as if he submitted to some internal struggle and reflected on his thoughts. With a loud exhale, he walked up to the railing and placed his hands on it. He stared at the mass of sails while collecting his thoughts.

Lord Walditch watched Bleyn’s eyes darkened before he turned and drew in a hard breath. A gurgle of acid erupted up Kurt’s esophagus, and he swallowed it with a grimace.

“I must apologize, Lord Walditch, if my hesitation may have left you thinking, I am somehow vexed.” Bleyn did not move. “You see, Lord Walditch, your comments give me pause. I was born into a noble house ruling a vast empire, and no one inquired if I wanted it. I have inherited the responsibility from my father and my brother, but do I want it?”

Kurt’s brows wrinkled with His Imperial Highness words because it seemed as if he said the words for himself rather than answer the question. Slowly, he came to stand beside the Grand Duke, and his hands fell on the railing. Unbeknown to him, the small finger of his left hand overlapped the same digit of the Grand Duke’s right.

“My brother was groomed to be head of household, and I was shuffled off to . . . Let me say it gave me an insight I would never have received.” Bleyn went on, oblivious to the touch or the strange warmth spreading up his arm and into his chest. “My father and his brother had grand plans for Kirill. Konstantin visits or wants me to call on him every day. He tells me of things I have no comprehension of and informs me what I should do. It is as if some tremendous and unknown plan now rests on my shoulders.

“My uncle is like my father. He does not listen. He presents me with ledgers and papers with little explanation and treats my inquiries as if I were a child. He makes plans for me and . . . I do not know. Nicholas had appraised me that Konstantin wants my mother to marry Prince Sebast'ya’s older uncle.” Bleyn fell silent, and his head slightly turned, so he gazed upon Lord Walditch on an angle and then he absently vocalized, “Frankly, I feel used.”

Wordless silence encapsulated the two men even as the crew's calls and the sound of the waves surrounded them. An overwhelming sense of comfort suppressed the desire to take the man in his arms, pinning Lord Walditch to the railing. He basked in the feeling, and then he became aware of its source. Blue eyes cycled down to the railing bringing, and the Baron gasped.

The hushed noise caused hazel brown eyes to travel down the arm from the charming profile Bleyn passively examined toward something he wanted to ignore. Irrespective of the indiscriminate touch, the Grand Duke revelled in the strange sensation of sluggishness engulfing him. The nose recognized the pungent smell of salt etched into wood subtly became a forest on a dewy morning. A massive tree at its centre of a glade with a poorly dressed old shrew hunched a dark cloth strewn with bones beneath it. A gnarled finger scraped her baggy chin while giving the young man a serious, even unearthly, gaze. Whispered words―your destiny approaches―tickled memory, and his eyes fluttered to clear his vision. The Grand Duke’s head flopped from side to side, but his eyes remained locked on the finger draped over his.

“Your Imperial Highness, please forgive my indecency.” Kurt quickly withdrew his hand before stepping backwards two long paces with a bow to hide his mortification.

The sight of Kurt’s face dissolved the remnants of the Grand Duke’s façade. Terror wrapped itself around the muscle in his chest, and he swallowed hard. The sight of the fingers overlapping his unlocked something inside that went beyond his deviant thoughts from his teenage years. Somewhere in his soul, the Grand Duke felt a curtain pull back, illuminating the source of his youthful fascination. Heat raced up his cheeks because he now realized he used a trusted servant as a surrogate.

Blue eyes flickered and the colour drained from Kurt’s face sending a shiver down the Grand Duke’s back. The air around him felt suddenly chilled and heavy, leaving Bleyn with the impression something watched him from afar. He sensed a malicious force trying to force a wedge between the two men in some mysterious way. Ripples of concern rolled up his back, and then he found himself stepping onto the coil of rope separating him from Kurt. Digging into his coat's inner pocket, he took something out and offered it to the Baron. A brass button with the Amblesey coats-of-arms lay on his cupped palm.

The Baron’s head tilted to one side as he stared at the odd offering. In a muted voice, he asked, “Where did you get this, Your Imperial Highness?”

Bleyn nervously cleared his throat, feeling abruptly self-conscious, and his shoulders awkwardly shrunk into his body. He quietly replied, “I found it on a garden path the morning after the ball.”

Here stood a powerful man looking shy and contemplative, offering the button like some token. The thought sent a shockwave through Kurt’s frame, and his thoughts scattered questions through his mind. Bleyn saw this play across the other man’s face, and he knew he should be embarrassed because knowledge gnawed at his self-respect. Everything Grand Duke sensed about this young lord went against what religion and society considered good and honest. The Tsar's private library contained several rare volumes that survived the purges instigated by the simple words set in ecclesiastical law almost fifteen hundred years ago―who content about religion shall pay with their lives and blood. These words gave the Christian orders the right to destroy all artifacts, artworks, writings and people who did not follow church doctrine. Where religious scholars considered such writings vile and corrupt, Bleyn looked at them as enlightening.

The exaggerated rhythm of Bleyn’s heart tickled of the marionette strings binding the Grand Duke to the invisible accords of civilized men. For the first time, Bleyn saw the intensity of the handsome man's suffering and the chilling shadow lingering on the edge of his vision. Throffing darkness hid inside their combined doubt, watching with keen interest married with an underlying sense of mischief. Once more, two men stared across the water at a tall statue of a woman. These two men leant into each other as if they sheltered against the cold while hold hands stuffed together in a coat pocket. Some part of a mind understood, and then a low, malevolent growl echoed in the depths of his mind sending a spike of timeless fear into Bleyn’s heart.

The stomach tightened, with the idea of combating the establishment went against everything Bleyn understood to be correct. His younger uncle mentioned being clever, but he also said the Baron would be leaving. Staring into Kurt’s eyes made him believe he could, but the flag at the stern of the frigate demanded obedience and conformity.

The glamour of people yelled in Russian shattered Bleyn’s thoughts, and his chest instantly tensed. Out in the sun thinned fog, the sails of a ship came into view. Bells and the rattling of drums echoed across the waves as the Saint Vincent broke the line turning toward the fog. The Union Jack caught the sun, and two frigates behind the four decked men-of-war turned to follow. Ahead of the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan, three Russian ships turned away from the fleet just as a bright red rocket shot up off the flagship’s deck. The noise level on the warship multiplied as the crew raced to their battle stations. 

The rising sun cast long rays of brightness on a low angle across the waves to battle with wispy fingers of fog reached out with willful intent. Two souls sensed the looming conflict between the ships and how the combatants symbolized two titanic forces threatening mayhem. A sensation of unearthly hatred played in the surging clouds as if something intelligent sneered at Lord Walditch while lasciviously leering at himself. A part of Bleyn’s anatomy clenched as a clammy chill ended in a violent shudder. Narrow amber brown orbs turned toward to see the man staring at a brass object with lifeless eyes. Bleyn felt a gnarled finger tap a card as if Death waited to flip it over, and his spirit recoiled.

The horror hidden within the mists should have rendered Bleyn motionless, if not for the tingling of the little finger of his right hand. He blinked, and an odd urge had him look down. Light caressed the shiny surface of the button the Grand Duke held out to Lord Walditch, and he saw what looked like flames. The fluctuating light played across the wrinkled skin of a hunchbacked elderly woman in the shadow of a tree. Her head lifted to the left as if she concentrated. A shaft of sunlight struck the button, and then Bleyn saw a man surrounded by ancient standing stones raised on a hill surrounded by fields and trees. Twinkling stars stretched from horizon to horizon, creating a screen of colour and degrees of brightness. The man pushed the hood to reveal a long white beard and wrinkles surrounding bright blue eyes. The sight shocked Bleyn, not because of what he saw, but rather of what he sensed. Somehow time twisted, connecting the older man to the young noble staring at the button.

Dark shadowy fingers stretched across the stars, searching for an object to grasp. The fabric of a long robe rustled, and the man clutched his chest. Contorted coils of haze assaulted the bright spots, extracting the light from the sky. As each point of light winked out, Bleyn somehow sensed the blood flowing within Kurt's body slow. In the corner of his eye, the Grand Duke noticed the French ships appear out of the fog, and his skin constricted as if something vile flowed with the vessels. Spots of flame and puffs of smoke flashed from under its main decks of the lead vessels tossing the water around the Saint Vincent. Each distance flash echoed against the standing stones, and Bleyn saw redness smearing light grey robes and stained his beard. Blue eyes looked into the darkening sky, and whispering words brush Bleyn’s ear―once lost and now returned. Without as much as a thought, the Grand Duke turned his hand over, and a warm button slid from his skin.

Captain Kurt Hummel of his Majesties Fifth Dragoon Guard startled when the sense that time had stalled lurched forward as if the ship rolled over a large wave. The hand flicked, and he caught the button before it fell one foot. The moment it touched his flesh, he drew in a deep, painful breath, and that feeling of dullness instantly departed. The hatred emerging from the fog snarled, and Kurt looked out to the waves to where the sun cut into the mist like a slashing sword revealing the entirety of the approaching squadron. The wide red, white and blue stripes of the French flag flowed from the rear of the five frigates, and the black and white banner of Prussia danced from the mast of three smaller corsairs.

The roar of the guns roused numbed minds, and two men turned to see flashes of flame emanating from the banks of guns of a British frigate. The volley landed around the first French ship throwing geysers of water into the sky. Three cannonballs found their mark against the wooden hull, while another took the top of the secondary mast off halfway up. Canvas, rope and wood tumbled to the decks, and then the impressive firepower of the Saint Vincent ripped into the damaged vessel. The French frigate leaned hard to port as it turned away to the north with flames rising from its rear deck. The damaged ship's guns and the vessel directly behind it rained iron upon the man-of-war splintering wood. Three Russian ships crossed behind the British contingent and opened fire before heaving hard to starboard. The guns on the opposite side of the ships hurled deadly metal balls into the French line.

A loud cheer―Ko Dnyu Pubeby1―rose from the crew of the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan as the French ship limped off in an attempt to escape belching smoke and flame. On the other side of the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan, the fleet of armed merchants followed the plan as they put on more sail and veered toward the coast in a cluster. With the Narcissus close behind, the under-gunned Russian frigate turned to ensure they covered the valuable fleet. On deck and below, men shouted as they rolled out the guns and soaked the decks with water. The two-armed marines in bright red joined Lieutenant Wensworth as the remainder of the Imperial Guard appeared on deck to stare at the ensuing battle. The Russian ships lined up behind the British as the two fleets passed each other, throwing speeding projectiles at each other.

The pain inflicted on the Baron by the hard edge of the button coiled in Kurt’s balled up hand eased. Turning his hand over to gaze at the brass button, the Baron felt something heavy tumble from his shoulders. Blue turned up to see expressive amber brown eyes gawking at him, and a shy smile spread Kurt’s lips. In an intimately low tone, he asked, “You kept this with you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Ko Dnyu Pubeby ̶ To the Victory Day (Russain google translation)


	12. Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan – Honesty

**6 August 1812**

The Grand Duke’s head plummeted toward his chest until he scrutinized the Baron’s feet and not the sight of long fingers holding a button. Deep in his heart, he felt a door squeak open, subjecting him to the hushed tones of sweet music. Memories of juvenile ballads and the joy of learning to play instruments reverberated in the soul in a language his conscious mind did not fathom. A tenor’s intonation intertwined with higher-pitched male vocals, inventing a collaborative rhythm to embrace his soul. A benign spirit fluttered in his chest, and he looked up at the man standing in front of him. Their eyes met, and Bleyn instantaneously identified Lord Walditch sensed the soothing melody composed of sensitive emotion.

The brilliance Kurt saw in those delectable hazel eyes accented the notes trembling through his body. For a moment, he felt as if he sat in the British Museum, gazing at a masterful portrait. Blue eyes scanned the tan tinted skin of real cheeks, and the details of the texture became elegant brushstrokes laid on the canvas by delf fingers. Long eyelashes lured inappropriate deliberations to the surface, drawing intense passion into the Baron’s chest. Awareness swelled, apprising Kurt his thumb inattentively rubbed the underside of a finger that once felt the warmth generated by another man’s flesh. Time became forgotten within the mesmerizing by the artistry of perfection. 

The wonder Bleyn recognized in Kurt pestered the Grand Duke because it contradicted Bleyn’s shame. A decerned truth made yesterday awkward, and this morning he felt guilty for not speaking. Gossip quickly identity the cad who grievously insulted Lady Berry and how the instigator effortless enticed a foolish man with the idea of cruel sport. Copious amounts of wine mixed with vodka conjured up the courage to challenge the noble gentleman irrespective of the repercussions. A wild ride to the seashore settled his drive, and by the time he presented himself to His Imperial Majesty, Bleyn had control of his headache and his temper. The conversation did not last long, and when he departed Prince Sebast'ya, waylaid him in the hall. That evening he dined with Grand Duke Konstantin, his wife, Prince Sebast'ya, Princess Katrina and a gathering of twenty. The wine called to him as the evening progressed, and by the time he climbed into his carriage, Bleyn felt thick-headed. He instructed his driver to take a side trip on the return trip to the Anichkov Palace, to wallow in the guilt the lights of Lyonechovka dredged up. Now a melody erupting from some unrealized past stretched the chain holding him to the heavy slab of responsibility.

The same weight hindered Lord Walditch in his flight to freedom and the focus of the moment. The second the brass adornment came to a rest on his soft skin, Kurt felt a key turning and something loathsome messaging his heart. The unearthly sensation of sharp, gnarled nails etching scars sinews of the body’s pump withdrew as if afraid. The shilly-shally1 mind flushed the fog allowing fondness to subvert revulsion.

A gust of cold air swirled between the two of them as if something monstrous detested its expulsion, prompting a sensation of dread. A translucent dark form slithered between the waves where boiling gray mist cut into the sun. The addition of grey to Kurt’s blue eyes identified Lord Walditch awareness of the wickedness, and two men looked away at the same time as if drawn to a threat. Ships travelling in opposite directions in lines threw deadly balls at each other to the delight of this thing. The bright flashes penetrated the fog and clouds of smoke as they fired at one another, and then the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan’s crew cheered. A great flare of flame rose from the warship in the middle of the French line toppling its masts. The heavily damaged frigate abruptly slowed and began to list to the starboard with the bow dipping into the waves.

In that place where something indescribable and reality briefly converged, evil snarled at the loss even as the terror of drowning men drew it toward the feast. The hungry chill withdrew from the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan, and Bleyn drew in a deep, shaky breath. The malicious tentacles of the animosity directed at Lord Walditch left an uncomfortable sensation in Bleyn’s throat. The Grand Duke turned to see the colour return to Kurt’s cheeks, followed by several short inhales. His eyes blinked, and then he glanced at Bleyn with an undetermined look.

Raised voices from above precipitated the rattling of a drum on the upper deck followed by loud orders. The crew reacted by pounding powder and shot into the barrels of the heavy weapons they manhandled toward the gun ports. The ship sailed with thirty-one of the usual complement of fourty-two cannon and used the additional space for supplies. A junior officer held a telescope to his eyes on the rear deck, looking toward the clouds of smoke and fog in the distance. A smaller ship bearing the flag of Prussia peeled away from the French line crossing in front of the massive man-of-war while putting on more sail. A series of flags ran up a mast as the lead Prussian vessel, and it sharply maneuvered away with the two ships following. Two flares rose from the Russian flagship, and the signal flags changed. Half a mile behind the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan, the Narcissus altered its course to shadow the merchant ships turning toward the protection of the coast.

The colossal boom of several guns firing almost at once caused Bleyn to step back, overlooking the fact he stood on a coil of rope. He yelled as his foot slid from under him, and he started to fall. The sound of something metallic striking the wooden decking stung his heart, and then someone grabbed his arms. Bleyn’s hands instinctively tightened about those offered to him, and he pulled with all his strength. The other man tugged at the same time, and the Grand Duke’s chest pressed into the half of the Baron’s torso. Astounded hazel stared into blue orbs, and the hammering of their hearts synchronized, and their shared melody exploded into a perfect symphony.

A sense of coming home swelled Lord Walditch’s lungs with each sniff of the Grand Duke’s enticing fragrance. Elation argued with impropriety arousing part of Kurt’s anatomy no one had viewed since he gave up diapers. Thoughts of childish exploration blossomed, and he watched the smith in the stable pounding on horseshoes. The large-framed man sang as his sweaty muscles pulsed with each swing of the heavy hammer. The artistry of the man’s form enticed a child who slowly discovered himself for a combination of reasons which excluded emotion. Never had he been so close to a man as he did this day, and this moment surpassed Kurt’s juvenile desire.

The twitching of his lobcock2 concerned Kurt, who feared his awakening would startle the Grand Duke. His improper thoughts melted like snow in the spring as a fox ran through his mind leaving a sickly feeling in the pit of Kurt’s stomach. The instruction of his pastor and his tutor conflicted with his mother's whispering words as she told her child he had choices. Every boy grew up knowing they had to speak with confidence, poise, manners while avoiding vulgarity. Since the ball, Kurt struggled to maintain the gentlemen’s code, and now he wanted to throw it all away to hold a man who made him feel immortal.

Sweat squeezed into the limited space between two hands when the Grand Duke felt something hard brush against his muscular thigh. Shock raced throughout his body, threatening the walls he built around himself to protect his innocence. The arm muscles flex in preparation to push the man away, but his tingling tickle tail3 controlled his thoughts. The boy in the stables and his eyes lingering on Sam never prompted such an impromptu and titillating reaction. The rush of heat rolling up the torso into Bleyn’s neck stunned the man who created distance between their bodies by stepping back without letting go of the hands securing him.

Another hand pressing into the small of the back startled the Grand Duke and his sense of time returned. His left foot slid sideways, and he found the balance he required to stand upright. Clammy fingers slid across Lord Walditch’s palm as the Grand Duke let go of the soft hands supporting him. Abrupt loneliness and regret flashed through Bleyn’s chest when he no longer touched that smooth flesh. He rolled his shoulders to defuse the disfunction he endured even though the muscle in the centre of his chest screamed at him to touch that perfect skin once more. Fiery emotion blocked the numbed thoughts shrinking the appendage between his legs. Determined not to allow his shame to show, Bleyn consciously took a step back toward the centre of the deck.

“Your Imperial Highness, are you alright,” Lieutenant Wensworth said from behind the Russian royal.

Clearing his throat to excise himself of the persistent impacts of an honest reaction, the royal personage turned and offered the British officer a pleasant smile. His voice sounded higher when he said, “Thank you, gentlemen. Your swift measures averted an uncomfortable fall.”

“I am but a humble servant, Your Imperial Highness,” Kurt responded with a respectful bow. The motion provided a moment of relief, allowing his engorged erection an opportunity to shift.

“Your Imperial Highness?” Captain Igor Smirov questioned in broken English before he bowed. The solidly built man stood much taller than the royal he protected. Short salt and pepper hair circled the baldness at the top of his head at the level of his ears. The jagged scar ran from his right ear across the back of his head and down to his neck had a dull redness to it. 

The disturbance provided Kurt with an occasion to turn toward the railing. He slid a hand down his jacket and then slipped it under the fabric to make a needed adjustment when he thought no one would see. Regardless of the boyish delight, if the Grand Duke noticed the object of his humiliating embarrassment, Kurt would never be able to live it down.

Captain Igor Smirov gave his British counterpart a nod. “Your Imperial Highness. You are in immediate danger.” 

To make a point, two geysers of water rose mere yards from the hull as the Prussian fire fell short. Seconds later, the ship shuddered as part of the forward decking flew in all directions throwing men off their feet. Blackish fume curled up from the stairs leading to the top of the frigate’s forecastle.

“Your father entrusted me with your safety, Your Lordship.” Lieutenant Wensworth enforced his words by grabbing the Baron by his sleeve and tugging. “We must get you away from this side of the ship,” 

The Russian officer looked out to see where one of the Prussian ships moved dangerously close, and he suggested in the strictest terms, “Your Imperial Highness, you―”

The Guardsman’s words ceased when the Grand Duke raised a hand and replied in his native tongue, “We will be adjourning to the other side of the ship, Captain Smirov.”

A short incline of the head and hand gesture on behalf of the Baron of Walditch advised his Imperial Highness to take the first step. Two uncertain nobles ended up standing to the side of the stairs on the upper deck within running distance of the dingy and out of the crew's way. Lord Walditch glanced back to see the members of their combined escorts assembling close to the longboat lashed to the deck behind the helmsmen. Kurt pitied the crew if they tried to commandeer the tiny vessel.

A junior officer bounded up the steps close to where the nobles stood and trotted over to the ship’s commanding officer. Captain Ivanov yelled an order to the helmsman, and the man spun the wheel hard over. A few seconds later, the frigate responded and headed to intercept the armed merchants the vessel protected. Jets of water splashed down onto the deck, and the warship quacked as it took another hit. The senior officer took a few steps toward the railing to get a better look. A few miles away, the Saint Vincent completed a turn, bringing the ship's undamaged side to bear against the French. The large ship passed close to a smothering frigate listing to one side with its stern raised in the air and its colours defiantly blowing in the wind. One of the English frigates drifted in a cloud of smoke, and a Russian ship lay alongside a heavily damaged French warship with its crew swarmed the enemy vessel.

Lord Walditch glanced over his shoulder to see smoke rising from the front of the ship. The distance between the fleet and the Prussians narrowed, and puffs of smoke erupted from the nearest transports. The additional firepower hindered the Prussians as their foremost ship took several hits for the transport's smaller guns. The Prussian ship opened fire on the closest merchant ship striking it once on the hull a yard above the waterline. Flags ran up his masts as the slow-moving, broad-beamed ship turned as its three guns fired. The troop carriers that followed fired when they entered range and then turned away from the battle while the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan and the Narcissus moved to block the Prussians.

“Exhilarating?” Grand Duke Bleyn watched ships playing across a chessboard made of water. “I see the deviousness of the French intent to draw us out of position, providing the Prussians with an opportunity. I saw a similar strategy fighting the Turks. Hit the main force and sent a light, maneuverable unit along the flank to attack the supply caravan. It can bring an end to a battle faster than one thinks.”

“I can see how having the supply train blown up would confound a victorious effort,” Kurt nodded even though his desire to speak had nothing to do with warfare. “If the Prussians get among the transports, we will lose several hundred men and perhaps Riga.”

“Napoleon appears to be concentrating on Moscow.” Bleyn watched the three Prussian ships. “Moscow is the spiritual and secular centre of Russia. The will to create an empire came from the city’s rulers, and it is the centre of our church. Taking Moscow would be a moral blow.”

“Your forces will make their stand,” Kurt tried to make himself sound convincing. “Like in Spain, Napoleon will reach the end of his supply line.”

“As we retreat, we are burning everything making foraging difficult.” Bleyn shook his head. “By the speed of his march, I feel he wants to be in Moscow before winter. Winter is our staunchest ally, Lord Walditch.”

“I would like to see people skating,” Kurt admitted with a little sigh.

Fingers spread invitingly wide when Bleyn leaned against the wooden barrier protecting him from falling into the sea. “I still want to teach you how to skate.”

“I do not know if I would be able to stand,” Kurt quietly replied while offering a bashful grin.

“I will aid you,” Bleyn replied without thinking. 

Feeling suddenly ten years younger and standing in front of his first infatuation, Kurt blushed ever so slightly. Folding his hand behind his back to prevent him from doing something he might regret. In a low tone, Kurt said, “Your Imperial Highness, I must apologize for any perceived improper. I only wanted to prevent you from falling.”

“Lord Walditch, you are perpetually expressing regret.” The Grand Duke turned toward the railing and looked down to check his footing and hide his shyness. “There is no need.”

“It is the nature of an English gentleman to apologize should there be an apparent slight.” Kurt forced the words to hide his desire to lay his finger on Bleyn’s welcoming skin. 

“I keep finding this.” Bleyn dipped his hand into a pocket. Extracting a smooth object and held it out to the British Lord.

The English lord examined the round item and shook his head. With a smirk, he said, “I seem to keep dropping that.”

“Is it fate?” the Grand Duke quietly asked with a little grin.

A soft chuckle rose in Kurt’s throat, and he took the button. A brass bobble held be clenched fingers delighted Kurt because Bleyn kept it. On the other hand, it worried him because it symbolized an event that continued to harry him. Lady Berry’s overreaction to this departure, while irritating, left the Baron feeling irresponsible. He should have been more sympathetic instead of escaping his issues only to find himself standing beside the reason.

Kurt swallowed his guilt as he slid the accessory back and forth between his fingers. Looking at the Grand Duke with his head tilted to one side, Kurt said, “I still find it incomprehensible that you kept this,”

The Grand Duke sucked his lip in and then glanced to the rear of the ship. “We will receive a better view of the battle and some privacy from the fantail, Lord Walditch.”

“Yes, I agree, Your Imperial Highness,” Kurt correctly replied even though he noted the less than decorous tones in the offer.

Half a dozen steps later, someone called to them in Russian, “Your Imperial Highness?”

“Captain,” Bleyn replied in Russian, noting the stress on the captain’s face. “It seems appropriate that we remove ourselves so we do not interfere with the crew.”

“Appreciated, Your Imperial Highness, Baron Walditch.” The captain replied. “Battles can be unpredictable.”

“Yes, they can, captain,” Kurt responded in Russian.

“Sir,” the first officer yelled from where he stood close to the helmsman at the same moment frigate quacked as several guns fired in quick succession.

Everyone turned to see the young midshipmen pointing with his telescope toward the west, where the thick cloud of smoke mixed with the ebbing fog. An eerie red glow grew around the Saint Vincent’s forward mast where burning canvas announced its difficulties. To upper sail of the mast wildly flapped and then flew away like a bed sheet escaping a laundry line. The sail below that slackened and then flopped down onto the deck in flames. The remaining three French frigates took advantage of this change of events and made a sharp turn to follow the Prussians.

“They cut the sails free,” the midshipmen called out.

“The fleet is maneuvered to pursue,” another officer yelled.

“Pray, excuse me, Your Imperial Highness,” the captain stated as he looked into the distance where the smaller ships tried to play the gambit.

“I do not wish to delay you, captain.” Grand Duke Bleyn answered as he watched the man-or-war with smoke belching from his forward deck turn to follow.

Once more, Grand Duke Bleyn and Lord Walditch wandered across the deck, situating themselves in the corner where the ship's undamaged side met its curving end. Honey brown eyes met sparkling azure forcing the heat to rise Bleyn’s neck and into his ears. No matter how he tried to rationalize what he felt, he could not get beyond the excessive emotions that gripped him every time they met.

Lord Walditch chuckled to himself and turned his hand over. Peeling his fingers away to expose the button, he whispered, “Perhaps it was fate.”

Drawing in a deep breath, he pointed at Kurt’s palm. “When I stumbled, I heard it fall, and I glanced down to see it lodged next to the rope. I scooped it up the moment you turned to speak to Lieutenant Wensworth.”

Compassion flashed in Kurt’s eyes, and he shyly smiled.

“What else could I have done.” Bleyn gulped. “You see, Lord Walditch, it is something I can remember you by.”

Irrespective of the roar of the guns, Kurt found himself incapable of concentrating on anything other than three words―remember you by. A smile stretched out his lips, and then an odd sensation tingled through his torso. His eyes slid to the right where a fog bank rolled across the waved toward the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan. His heart skipped a beat, and his essence felt the malice lingering in the long filaments of grey mist scowl at the same three words. The bellowing fog reared like a snake preparing to strike, but instead of points fangs, nattering phrases nibbled at Kurt’s resolve. The murmuring in his mind warned him of being ostracized, imprisoned or worse, while the softness of emotion wanted to feel those supple fingers again.

The shadow crawling over Kurt’s face advised Bleyn of the spiteful monstrosity returned to leech the warmth out of Kurt’s body. The soul recoiled from the rabid hatred, and then Bleyn remembered the words―once lost and now returned. Reaching for the decorative article of clothing, a faint wind tinted with lavender rustled his wavey hair. The breeze vanished as fast it appeared, and then it flowed across the back of Bleyn’s hand onto Kurt’s palm.

“Ah . . .That was―” Kurt stammered as his eyes fluttering.

“Lord Walditch?” Bleyn returned an uncertain look as he withdrew his fingers.

“I.” Kurt’s jaw dropped, and his head fell toward his right shoulder.

Fussy hair bounced here and there as Bleyn’s head bobbed back and forth as he nodded. He continued to feel the haunting thing in the fog leering at Kurt. If he genuinely believed in religion, he would swear the devil stalked the Baron of Walditch, but the whispered words of the Witch of Razliv allowed him to see something far more dangerous.

The expression on Bleyn’s face provided Kurt with the answer he sought, but his logical mind commanded he ask the question, “You felt that too?

“Yes.” The Grand Duke strongly inhaled and then gazed directly into the Baron’s eyes. “Since meeting you, I have undergone many extraordinary experiences I do not comprehend. It is unnerving.”

The short breath Kurt drew in removed the last of the ache from his chest. He glanced out to sea and the last vintages of the fog. “Peculiar visions?”

“Peculiar defines some of it.” Bleyn paused and looked away with a strange look on his face. “There are . . . I do not know how to explain the abnormal phenomena.”

“Your Imperial Highness.” Kurt swallows. “Perhaps we―”

The neck rolled, and Bleyn hesitantly replied, “I know someone I may ask.”

“Oh?”

“You would not believe me.”

“I might.”

“Such topics are disturbing and requiring great caution.”

Kurt glanced at those around him, and he noticed a Russian soldier, with the insignia of a non-commissioned officer on his sleeve, stared at him. The bearded man gave the Baron a look that of curiosity rather than condemnation. No one else, even those close standing nearby, seemed to notice the intimacy between the nobles.

Unaware of where Kurt gazed, Bleyn released a little sigh and then said, “I feel . . . I feel things I should not. I informed you before . . . Kurt . . . I enjoy being in your company.”

The utterance of his birth name astonished Kurt, and his face revealed his annoyance and excitement. Suppressing his growing panic, he rushed to assure the Grand Duke before he got the wrong idea. “Your Imperial Highness . . . Bleyn . . . I do not understand.”

“I do not understand either.”

“Why is it, I feel I have known you longer?”

“Two men looking―”

“Holding hands.”

“Holding hands.”

“Boys on the sandy riverbank.”

“Lord . . . Kurt. All these things frighten me.”

“Your . . . Bleyn. From the top of the stairs, I knew you.” Kurt glanced about to see that one soldier watching while everyone else paid attention to the battle. Self-conscious of being observed, he steeled his nerve and added, “Hold out your hand.”

Tender silence engulfed the noblemen when Kurt gently placed the button in Bleyn’s hand and curled his hand around it. Warm hazel eyes gazed at unique blue orbs, and Bleyn swallowed. In a deep, gravelly voice, he said, “Thank you . . . Kurt. This means more than I can express.”

“I think I do.” Kurt's head shyly dropped to the right even though he did not take his eyes from the sentimental Grand Duke.

Unable to hide his smile, Bleyn whispered, “I suppose we both do.”

Then, as if mischief demanded revenge, a towering stray of salty water splashed the deck and over the men next to the railing. Bleyn jumped back, waving his arms in front of him and then he started to laugh for a reason he could not rationalize. The expression on Kurt’s face shifted from shock to fury as salty liquid tumbled down his face soaking his uniform.

The dark look the Baron of Walditch gave Bleyn caused the Grand Duke to take a step back, not because of Kurt but rather the chill his soul endured. Fingers swiped through wet curls as he wiped the water from his forehead. He stopped in mid-motion and bit his tongue before saying, “Forgive me.”

Pursed lips accentuated Lord Walditch’s appearance, and then he took one step toward the Grand Duke. Looking down at the shorter man, he suddenly flicked a soggy lock of curled hair with a finger and announced, “You look like a damp poodle that followed me through the brambles.”

The Grand Duke snickered and turned away from the British noble to shake the water from his hair. Regardless of Kurt’s playful little laugh, he knew he must explain. “Lord Walditch . . . Kurt. Honestly, I did not follow you. The Tsar wants an appraisal of Riga's situation, and my uncle Konstantin was more than happy to offer my services. He said it would help give me a sense of purpose.”

“You believe that?” Kurt blurted and instantly gulped. The words had not been his.

“How dare you insinuate that I―” Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov growled, and then the sensed the thin wedge inserted between the two of them. His head suddenly dropped to his chest like an admonished wet puppy. “Honestly, Kurt . . . Lord Walditch, I am afraid. There is so much happening that I do not understand.”

The shorter man looked away to see Great Britain's Ensign flying the wind as the Narcissus turned sharply toward the closet corvettes firing its guns. In the distance, the Saint Vincent sailed toward them with a full head of sail on two of its three masts. The fleets started to spread apart as the lead British ships rained cannonballs down on the end of the French line. Smoke lay on the water where the rear of a French vessel bobbed out of the water, exposing its rudder. One of the smaller Prussian ships crossed between its sisterships with flames rising from its decks, heading away from the battle zone.

The distraction did little to calm the Grand Duke’s nerves because an innocent touch of a finger doomed him. He rolled the button in his palm and looked directly into Kurt’s shining eyes. Something nasty tried to take hold of the Baron, but Bleyn saw unadulterated passion. His voice shivered when he said, “I grew up knowing I would always be in the shadow of my brother and now . . . I find―”

“And now you bear the burden.” Kurt frowned because of the heaviness of his thoughts and desire in his heart.

“Yes.”

“I may not be royal, but I have my obligations.”

“To marry?”

“To marry.”

“I―”

“My, this is awkward.”

“Forgive me,”

“Neither of us owes the other forgiveness.”

“Yes, there is. I overheard you speaking to your father the night of the dinner at Anichkov Palace. I did not sleep that night.”

“Neither did I.”

“Did indulging in bene bowse4 consume you?”

“No.”

“I did. I realized then the indecency of my . . . You must be offended.”

“On the contrary . . . I find myself infatuated.”

Bleyn suddenly glanced toward the battle drawing in a deep breath. The suffocating darkness carried on the smoke mangled his thoughts. “Lord Walditch, we . . . Kurt . . . Err . . . I must be elsewhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 shilly-shally – irresolute, indecision
> 
> 2 Lobcock – flaccid penis
> 
> 3 Tickle tail - A rod used by a schoolmaster to administer punishment. A man’s penis.
> 
> 4 Bene bowse – good beer, or other strong liquor.


	13. Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan – Elsewhere

**7 August 1812**

A dreadful chill ran through his body as if icy fingers consisting of mischievous fog caressing the body, making it impossible to go back to sleep. The lumps in the mattress became increasingly annoying as the mind played unremitting competitions. The skin felt damp and the odour emitted from the undergarments attested to the need bath or a copious amount of perfume. The idea of ending his misery with a case of barrel fever1 did little but remind him of a day-long headache.

A man groaned and rolled over, finding another hard point in the mattress. During the waning moments of the battle, he did what he usually did when he faced something he found untenable―being elsewhere. In his youth, elsewhere meant disappearing to some secret place to wait out his father or brother's anger. Here, it entailed hiding from the sensation of a hard cock rubbing against his leg. Sullen darkness competed with his emotions invoking the words of control―duty, honour, pride, respect, reverence, county, church. To esteem, a man wailed against these words condemning him to hell and damnation, but then, hell felt gratifying at this moment.

Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov owed the Baron of Walditch an explanation, but how could he summon up the courage to speak of such personal and scary matters. The horrific sight of his father sodomizing the sable boy ruined him in so many ways. He discovered new entertainments and refused to include himself in the debauchery of his father and brother. The idea of marriage terrified him even though he knew he had little choice in the matter. Why did this handsome British noble move him the way he did? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Kurt standing in the piles of hay with an adorable smile on his face next to the Chief Prosecutor of the Synod of the Russian Orthodox Church, who angrily wagged a finger at the new Grand Duke.

A loud groan rumbled in Bleyn’s throat as he tossed himself to the left to see the bright three-quarter moon in the aft windows of the cabin. He pushed himself onto one elbow to stare at the wide ray of light cast across the floor and over the table in the middle of the room. The fingers of his other hand entangled in his curls, and then he shook his head. Heaving his feet over the edge of the bed, Bleyn rolled his shoulder and felt his spine pop in several places. He rested there with his hands in his hands, and then he sauntered over to the window. The wide blade of light shimmering the waves revealed the fleet arrayed to the east with the bulk of the Saint Vincent in the rear with a Russian and English frigate on each side. Good and evil. Light and dark. Could it be real? Religion might be one of the staples of life, but Bleyn gave it little more than lip service, and now he mistrusted his beliefs. No matter how he tried to rationalize the things he experienced yesterday, he could not get beyond the thought that something black beyond the darkest nightmare stalked the fog surrounding the French ships.

The body shuttered, and he glanced up at the moon where a thin shadow crossed over the luminance as if fingers searched for something. The larynx vibrated, and to Bleyn’s surprise, he hummed a tune that conjured up a vision of cold stones. Two old men walked between the large pieces of raised rock toward the centre of the ring. The shorter of the two held something in his hand, and Bleyn suddenly felt the lusty hands stroked his heart. Wickedness lingered out on the waves beyond the horizon stalking him, and for an unexplainable reason, the presence of a man how conjured up thoughts of enjoyable sin protected him.

The Grand Duke’s head slowly came to rest on the low window cell, and he thought of the look on Lord Walditch’s face when he walked away. Grief filled his heart when he reached the top of the stairs, and he looked back to see the ashen look of hurt on the nobleman’s face. At the same moment, he saw Sergeant Mozhayev's distinguished face wrinkle with concern. Repentance descended on the Grand Duke, whose pride forced him to stand as regally tall as his short frame would permit. The superiority of his station bread stubborn resolve, and the license to deal with his nagging sense of compassion. The clash between the two prompted rage he did not wish to share. Regardless of his wants, the door to the commanding officer’s cabin slammed in Captain Smirov’s face.

Flinging his back against the portal, he racked down his face and paused when he felt moisture under his eyes. Seconds later, he pressed his hands against his ears, trying to drown out the banshee-like howl sounded in his head, crushing his will. The sickness in his heart spread through his body, overthrowing mindfulness and squashing emotion. The moon's light waned with the shafts of gray cloud obscuring its brilliance drew the warmth from Bleyn’s breath. Lord Walditch’s beautiful eyes held hope even though noose tightening about his neck insisted he must enter a loveless marriage. His house must continue as the rigours of society demanded. Bleyn knew he could be happy with a female companion as long as she did not expect too much. He knew of no way to avoid the issue of marriage, and if he had a choice, Princess Natalya hit the mark. The lovely lady knew how to enjoy herself and, if her words testified to her intentions, she might be able to teach him a few things. He also knew she would allow him a measure of freedom to indulge in secret desires. On the other hand, the daughter of his uncle’s closest confidant, while lovely and charming at times, demanded attention and all the extravagancies of her position. He knew enough about how his father managed his mother to understand he would never indulge in such draconian measures to keep Princess Katrina in check.

Bleyn scowled himself as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand because men do not cry. If his father so him now, the thrashing would threaten his life and his mother, while empathetic, would remain silent. It became the way of things throughout the civilized world, controlling riotous desires with steadfast order. The hypocrisy of those in power stymied honest thought as the elite spoke one way and acted the other. If Bleyn believed the words spoken on Sunday mornings, damnation awaited all of them. Play the game, but do not get caught. Bleyn knew the game, but only recently did its deep depravities touch his life. In one way, a British noble signified his fall, and in another, he felt salvation.

Thinking of a bleak future stirred up matters Bleyn could no longer ignore―his conversation with the Baron. The sadness in Kurt’s intonation twisted the Grand Duke’s resolution, stripping him of his resistance to the man’s uninhabited charisma. Panic, and not fear, took hold as the intimacy between them blossomed into something that persuaded Bleyn he may be able to commit passionate sin. Doubt twisted Nicholas’s words, and any hope of maintaining his composure died like flames smothered by a bucket of water. The hissing of hot wood mirrored the smashing of carnal wantonness as a fickle dream disappeared on the breeze. Lord Kurt Hummel, Baron of Walditch, would return to England in a matter of days, leaving a hungry young man with questions and aspiration.

The muffled sound beyond the door confounded his memory, permitting his soul to sense a soft, alluring melody. The Grand Duke’s head came up, and he wiped the moisture from his eyes as he looked up to see the first hint of a new day in the east. The faint tinkle worked up his spine, and then he turned on one heel seeking his uniform jacket. Snatching it up from the floor where he threw it, he picked and dug into the side pocket, finding a brass button. His fingertips throbbed when they touched the cold metal, and the ache in his heart instantly calmed. The gloom over the moon cleared, and the chorus in his heart harkened him to the door.

Squishing the piece of carved metal between his fingers, Bleyn felt the agony behind Kurt’s gift. It held all of Bleyn’s hopes the wishes of the foxes deny him. As a child, he overheard his mother speaking to her closest friend about learning to love and the impossibility of happiness should it never blossom. The eleven-year-old hiding from his brother Bleyn did not understand what until his uncle started to make arrangements.

Walking over to the door, Bleyn leaned his head against the thick wooden frame letting out a silent sigh. He listened to mumbling noises through the thick wood while working to keep himself composed. The disobedient side Bleyn rarely rebelled against the strict constraints placed upon it, but he wanted to feel that smooth flesh again. He also did not want to make a fool of himself. Luckily, once the ship docked in Riga, the two had their assignments and would most likely go their separate ways. The saddening thought reminded Bleyn that while his birth placed him in a royal bloodline, he must not compromise his humanity.

The light passed through a crack in the door, and he strained to get a peek taking note of expression on Lord Walditch, who stood on an angle in comparison to the wall. The brightness played off the nobleman’s face in darkened profile, giving him a mysterious and alluring glow. The heart tightened as the spectre of his father whipping and pleasuring himself at the expense of the sable hand, came to mind. One word to the guard and Lord Walditch might find himself tied to a mast enduring pain that would blemish his beautiful skin. The power of Tsar Aleksandr lay at his fingertips, and the idea of using it horrified Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov.

The world around him seemed to pause as he drew in a laboured breath know he could never be like his uncle Konstantin. His father called him soft and not suitable for a dignified position. The Dowager Grand Duchess took a different approach that she reinforced the day they told her of her son’s death. She told her son never to allow the trappings of power to overcome the truth of the person he grew to be. She tapped her grieving son on the chest with two fingers and then ran her fingers through his hair. She then drew her sole surviving child into an embrace where they cried together.

Said trappings of power lay in his hands now, but Bleyn did not feel influential. His uncle controlled his life, and at the moment, he did not know what to do about it. The young, inexperienced Grand Dukes needed it, or did he? Nicholas had a good head on his shoulders, and then he could speak to the Tsar’s principal secretary, Count [Maslow](https://www.familyeducation.com/baby-names/name-meaning/maslow?role=family). He considered consulting a legal scholar for opinions, but then, he dreaded his uncle’s reaction. The past few days, he worried about many things, including the Baron of Walditch.

The object of his trepidation stood a few feet away, and His Imperial Highness knew he must no longer dilly dally2. The door opened a crack to reveal a heated discussion between a handsome British lord and a stubborn guard. Kurt’s dishevelled appearance startled the Grand Duke bringing a smile to face, and those normally bright blue eyes swirled stormy grey. The red-faced nobleman’s gestures had his hand moving to and throw. The brown vest in his right hand thrust back and forth inches from the chest of the unappeasable face soldier with his hand resting on his sword hilt.

Turbulent blue orbs softened when Kurt realized the Grand Duke gazed at him through a widening crack in the door. Embarrassment flashed on his already flush cheeks, and then he bowed.

The soldier observed a sudden change and turned and inclined his head. The guard spoke in Russian to the Grand Duke, “I beg your pardon, Your Imperial Highness. I told Baron Walditch you desired no disruptions until the time came to disembark.”

“I am sure Lord Walditch would not interrupt my leisure if he did not believe it to be of the paramount importance,” Bleyn spoke to the soldier while studying the man demanding an audience. The baron may be striking an imposing stance to accentuate his position, but Bleyn saw the pleading look in the other man’s wet, red-rimmed eyes.

“It is of the utmost urgency that I speak with you, Your Imperial Highness.” The pitch of Kurt’s voice came off as abnormally high.

Bleyn sighed and brushed his eyes, feigning the commotion woke him. His face scrunched up, and in a petulant tone, he bellyached, “I am going to get no more rest this night. Yes, do come in, and we can discuss your pressing matter.”

A worried expression erupted on Kurt’s face, and his heart sank into the depths of his stomach. He wanted to pretend his intentions to be earnest and innocent, but three words heightened the shame of possible discovery. His position in English society would not protect him, and when it concerned a Grand Duke, Kurt expected no leniency.

The opening widened, and the self-important guardsman placed his back against the wall signally the baron would be admitted. The British noble glanced at the hard-faced soldier and the ugly scar ranging across his forehead before entering the captain’s quarters. The room looked much the same he last saw it except His Imperial Highness’s jacket and shirt lay on the floor, and it appears as if he tossed his boots against the back wall. A metal cup sat on the table next to a bottle next to an open bottle that still looked full. The book turned upside next to the bed, added to a story of anger and uncertainty.

Sillhouteed in the brightness of the oil lamp casting broken shadows in the hall, Kurt hesitated and then slowly took three steps into the shadowy room. At first, he saw no one and then he looked into the gloom to see Bleyn leaning against the wall with his head pressed against the wood with eyes closed. Lord Walditch’s brows furrowed because the man looked both adorable and sadly unreachable.

The Grand Duke studied the Baron of Walditch, and then he pushed off the wall. A few steps later, he stood next to his guest from Great Britain, still wondering if his actions would continue the war between their nations. His head drooped, and Bleyn suddenly felt like he stood before his father, waiting for his words of chastisement.

“Lord Walditch,” Bleyn tried to sound strong, but his words quivered in a manner unbecoming someone of his stature. “Understand, I have nothing but the greatest esteem for you. It was never my intent to allow events to get to the point they did. Please accept my apology.”

“I love you,” the words squeaked out Kurt’s mouth before he thought. A hand instantly slapped against his mouth, and he backed away from the Grand Duke until the table nailed to the centre of the room stopped him from moving.

An adorably short curly-haired man looked puzzled at first, and then his eyes went wide. The cascading emotions crossing Kurt’s face captivated the Grand Duke even though part of him growled at the impropriety of those three words. Men did not say such things to each other, but the phrase rang loud and clear in his heart like a silver bell on a cold winter’s night.

If someone could swallow their heart, Kurt’s head slumped as he gagged on his breath. Wide-eyed fear took over as he waved his arms in front of him and blathered, “Oh, I am a buffle-headed3 trumpery4 asking for a basting5.”

The slight volume and pitch of the Baron’s voice announced his complete disregard for decorum. He chuckled.

Any hint of embarrassment vanished as Kurt pulled himself up taller, and then he sagged against the table. Words spoken could not be undone, and the Baron of Walditch knew he must face the firing squad. The innocent snicker dug into his self-esteem, telling him it might be possible to start a new life in Africa or British North America.

Slowly dropping to his knees, Kurt thought that if he prostrated himself, he might be able to salvage some vestige of a friendship. With his head bowed, Baron Walditch gulped down whatever remained of his pride. With a slight sigh, he humbly said, “Your Imperial Highness, it is your prerogative to call me out for my sammy6 words and have me trounced7. Or would a duel suffice?”

Offended? Hardly. Shocked? Absolutely. Never had he witness such an overt and blatant act that broke one of society's cardinal rules of society. The problem now became the truth those three words dredged up. He swallowed the recollection of his brother chasing him and how his legs trembled when he realized Kirill gave up. In this instance, emotion caused one of the mightiest persons in Imperial Russia took several to stumble. No one ever knelt before him without a sensation of fear accompanying the act. His father often had his teenage son chastise those who offended the reigning Grand Duke. He said it would harden a boy ruined by his mother’s pampering.

Regarding the man for a second, he slowly knelt in front of the baron. He wanted to take Kurt’s hands yet refused because of the tension. In a compassionate tone, Bleyn said, “Lord Walditch . . . Kurt, you have nothing to fear. I find my sentiment hard to express, and while some may call it repugnant, but I do not. What do you British call it . . . Wood pecker8. I have been a woodpecker clinging to the wall all my life, but I find that life much happier with your acquaintance. Please do not take me for a scoundrel who preys on a foreigner. You mesmerize me, Lord . . . Kurt in ways I . . . Find hard to articulate.”

Kurt’s head shot up, and Bleyn marvelled as he watched the fear replaced by something beyond words. With little concern for society’s pressures, Bleyn decided he would allow himself this one little indulgence knowing that it would all be a fond memory shortly after they returned to Saint Petersburg. The water brimming Kurt’s soft blue eyes touched the Grand Duke carving holes in the resolve implanted in him over his short life. The index finger of his right hand briefly touched the cheek beneath Kurt’s eyes, wicking the salty moisture away.

Surprised by the sincere act of kindness, Kurt tremble as he leaned ever so slightly into the show of affection. The breath drawn into Kurt’s chest stalled at the touch, and another tear squeezed out of his eye. Lord Walditch lost himself and started to babble. “Oh, my . . . I do not know . . . We . . . I came to accept my place in . . . We . . . I am a foodler9 zounderkite10. You see, I always stopped to speak to the servants. They played games . . . It felt . . . You do not want to . . . You―”

Bleyn placed a finger under Kurt’s chin and lifted his head until their eyes met. He smiled and quietly said, “A walk along a river and through sumptuous gardens gave intoxicating hints of something between us. The haunting glimpse of two boys on a river or two men gazing upon an incredible statue paled in comparison to what the malicious . . . I . . . We . . . Whatever that may be . . . It clearly involves a British Baron and a Russian Grand Duke. I cannot pretend I am not frightened.”

“It frightens me, as well.”

“I know someone who may be able to shed some light on these peculiarities.”

“Is this someone close by?”

“Outside Anderovska.”

“Oh?”

“I would like to show you Anderovska. It is quaint little country home.”

“This person?”

“She can be found at a lake a half-day ride away.”

“Oh?”

“She has a reputation that scares people.”

“Not you?”

“At first, yes, but then?”

“Then is it hard to explain. Remember the servant's game?”

Bleyn nodded as he offered Kurt a hand and coaxed him to stand.

Hesitation gripped Kurt, but he acknowledged the offer. Once on his feet, he gazed at the Grand Duke and then he walked to the table and pulled out a chair. He sat with a huff and glanced at the bottle.

Taking the queue, Bleyn found another metal mug and pulled the cork from the bottle. Pouring two half glasses, he tugged out a chair and faced the Baron with a soft look of uncertainty. The conflict persisted within him, but, at this moment, he wanted this. They should be in Riga in a few hours, and then, he had no idea what would happen.

Holding the metal cup up to his nose, Kurt sniffed at the aroma of the red wine. Gazing over the rim, he said, “I was thirteen when I walked in the servant’s game, and it opened my eyes. I stood there watching a heart-shaped pointer across a strange board with the alphabet laid out on the arch across the top. They said they could speak with spirits.”

One of Bleyn’s eyebrows went up.

“They believed it.” Kurt defended himself and then drank some of the mediocre wine. “They called it Ouija, and they claimed no one pushed the pointer as it answered their questions. I was skeptical, and then my father went to Salisbury on business. He took me to the cathedral, and there Kurt first felt the tug of the ancient stones on the nearby plain. Age and duty suppressed the feelings of that place, but . . . Yesterday with the cannonballs flying around, the feeling I once lived near the old site returned to me with a strength I have not felt in years.”

“To men in robes walking under stones,” Bleyn shipped his wine.

The Baron nodded with a grin.

“Princess Katrina berated me when I innocently mentioned tarot.” Bleyn looked a little ashamed to admit it, and then he chuckled. “She sat up straight and started to pronounce that all forms of divination lead to Satan and the horrors of godlessness. She went on at some length, speaking of how people who practice the ungodly acts of sorcery or interpreting omens or consult with the dead are reprehensible. She regaled the party with her piety, and while being polite, I did not bring it up again.”

“But you still read the cards?”

“Yes. This person I mentioned introduced them to me, amongst other things.”

“Other things?”

“Let me just say, it changed the way I looked at the permanence of like.”

“My father had a dog, Bailey. He adored him, and I love him. He tumbled over a hedge and seriously injured himself, and eventually died. I was eight, and I had no idea that Bailey’s death would help me when my mother left us. I learned that death is final and absolute, only to meet someone who made me think of . . . The Holy Church would burn me for what I am thinking, and I find myself not caring.”

“I believe I know what you mean. When I look into your eyes . . . Kurt . . . I feel a kindred spirit. A door opened within me, granting me an opportunity to see the power of the heavens with clarity and not with the blinders of scripture. Visions . . . Yesterday . . . It terrified me to say I can no longer refute an existence outside the physical world.”

The cup went up to Kurt’s lips, and he gulped down its contents and then topped up both their drinks. A warm, quivered crawled up Kurt’s back, leaving him surprisingly at peace. Flesh against flesh ushered in fundamental change that told him to resist the fear of circumventing his duties. He had heard it said that the ungodly beliefs found in India and China speak of the rebirth of life. Now he considered his private blasphemy because the apparitions of lives formerly lived sat across from him, ripping at sanity and belief.

“Your thoughts?” Bleyn asked with concern.

The baron drank more and nervously looked at the luminance played on the uneven ceiling planks. “I am pondering the transgressions of faith.”

Bleyn sipped his wine and admitted, “I keep hearing the words of the monks.”

“Oh?”

Unable to find the words to explain the complexities of his internal conflict, Bleyn put his cup down and looked about the room. He rolled his head from side to side rubbing his neck. When his nerve returned, he said, “I once asked you to sing for me. Will you sing with me now. I would like us to commit this moment to memory to keep us comforted in the long winter to come.”

For Lord Hummel, the sudden change in their conversation came as a relief. He swirled the liquid in his cup and then said, “I understand you need time to consider. This is just as hard for myself. This summer will be short for both of us, but I find myself wanting it to stretch beyond the coming of fall.”

“What we have said needed to be voiced. While I have no idea what may . . . You will be leaving after you return to Saint Petersburg.” Bleyn pushed his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out the button. “I look at the brightness of the simple thing, and I see summer.”

Kurt stared, not knowing what to say.

Bleyn glanced to the chair on the other side of the cabin. “The captain has a violin, and I see a mandolin over there. We can play, and I think I know a couple of English tunes.”

Rapidly closing eyelids spread the moisture blurring Kurt’s vision. “You told Lady Berry you did not know English songs.”

“I wanted something to share just with you.” The Grand Duke blushed and not just because of their current conversation. “Music is the only thing we can share where we are together . . . In a way, no one can separate us.” 

Kurt could not prevent the huge smile from brightening his face. “Do you know, Pull Me Away, Pull Me Away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Barrel fever - He died of the barrel fever; he killed himself by drinking
> 
> 2 Dilly dally - procrastinate
> 
> 3 Buffle-headed - Confused, stupid
> 
> 4 Trumpery - An old whore, or goods of no value; rubbish
> 
> 5 Basting - A physical beating
> 
> 6 Sammy – foolish or silly
> 
> 7 To trounce - To punish by course of law
> 
> 8 Wood pecker - A bystander, who bets whilst anothers play
> 
> 9 Foozler – a bungler, orone who does things clumbily
> 
> 10 Zounderkite - idiot


	14. Riga

**7 August 1812**

“Baron Kuznetsoy, I have orders for you,” Lieutenant-General Ivan Fyodorovich Emme stood straight-backed adorned with a sash, honours and braid, looking down his nose at the Baron. He extended his right hand, tendering a pleated parchment with his seal of the area military commander stamped in wax. The region's ranking officer, accompanied by some of his officers, boarded the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan shortly after she docked at the wharves northwest of central Riga on the Dvina River. The gangplank barely came to rest in place when he strode up onto the decks with an arrogant air of superiority.

“Lieutenant-General.” Baron Kuznetsoy stared at his superior with annoyance as he reached up to accept the folded piece of paper with a sharp incline of his head. He transferred his flag to the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan prior Russian Fleet glided up the river leaving the British ships to guard the river mouth.

A weary, but happy Bleyn, stood next to the Russian Baron, unrecognized by the Lieutenant-General regardless of his style of dress. Amber brown eyes looked up into the rigging where a yellow flag with the Imperial coats-of-arms flew from the mast designated the presence of a ranking member of the Imperial House. While the general may not know Bleyn by sight, the Grand Duke knew the condescending officer by reputation. The last time the new Grand Duke viewed the Lieutenant-General, Ivan Fyodorovich Emme presented himself to the Tsar during an event full of pageantry celebrating the military.

Lieutenant-General Emme regarded the senior naval officer for several seconds to instill a position of authority over someone he disliked. He then glanced about as if searching for someone, and then he said, “Baron Kuznetsoy, do convey to Your Imperial guest that I have arrived, and I request an immediate audience.”

The Baron barely moved his head when his eyes moved to the right. The Lieutenant-General’s condescension and lack of observance infuriated the Grand Duke who knew him by reputation. Baron Kuznetsoy tried to prevent further embarrassment to the office in charge of the city defence, and the Lieutenant-General missed the attempt. The animosity between the two men pointed to a history neither wanted to demonstrate before the Grand Duke.

The look between the two hardened with the fleet commander divulged no emotion as he turned and bowed toward the short, young man beside him. In a crisp tone, Baron Kuznetsoy announced, “Your Imperial Highness, Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov, Lieutenant-General Ivan Fyodorovich Emme, commander of the defence of Riga, would request an audience.”

The Lieutenant General’s eyes went wide as if he realized his miscalculation. Removing his hat, the man bowed a little lower than expected to hide his embarrassment. When he stood straight once more, he stated, “Your Imperial Highness, I am honoured by your presence. We were not aware of your Imperial presence in Riga until the flag was reported.”

Polite behaviour demanded Bleyn remain resolute even though he found the regional commander’s bearing outrageous. A sense of caution blanketed Bleyn’s thought, and he calmly replied, “Lieutenant-General Emme, thank you for your greetings. I do not wish to stand on ceremony, and there is much to do. We are at war with an old ally, and Baron Kuznetsoy has troops and supplies to disembark.”

“Ah, Your Imperial Highness, there is a requirement to delay such preparations. The orders I presented Baron Kuznetsoy are to disembark his troops at Jarmala and then to sorte down the coast to engage the French,” Lieutenant-General Emme stated with a tone of authority above his station.

The Baron of Walditch, who remained silent during this exchange, readily saw the tension between the ranking Russian nobles. Military dispatches must have announced Grand Duke Bleyn’s elevation, yet it appeared the Lieutenant-General might have deliberately snubbed his royal guest from his point of view. The moment he boarded the ship, Kurt noted the manner in which the area commander studied the officers arrayed before him. The office recognized Bleyn, but he must have thought that one of the Grand Duke’s predecessors must be on board by the way he looked around.

Lord Hummel scrutinized the Grand Duke from in the corner of his eyes, hoping no one noticed. The shorter man with his curls held down by pomade surveyed the confrontation with a contrived state of acceptance. The British Baron ascertained the signs of distress regardless of the Grand Duke’s apparent ability to hide his fatigue.

Baron Kuznetsoy, who Kurt considered unreceptive in Saint Petersburg, did not hide the fact he had issues with the Lieutenant-General. The diversion supplied Lord Walditch the opportunity to survey three powerful men encaged in combat of a more personal nature. One considered himself to be arrogantly grand, another other strategically cunning, and the third patent in his plotting. If Kurt had not opened his heart to one of them, he would care little. A bit of a lively shanty1 cleared the air even though Kurt hoped there would be a response to his startling declaration.

“Lieutenant-General Emme, my orders come personally from His Imperial Majesty,” Baron Kuznetsoy rigidly replied. “I was commanded to deliver troops and supplies to Riga for the cities defence and then return to Saint Petersburg in preparation to ferry further supplies and troops. Captain Ivanov, of the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan, was commanded to wait in Riga at the Grand Duke’s pleasure to convey His Imperial Highness back to Saint Petersburg.”

The Lieutenant-General bristled, and before he could say anything, Bleyn enforced the Baron’s statement by adding, “There was a battle yesterday at sea, and French frigate was captured and another sunk. Baron Kuznetsoy needs to see to repairs and resupply prior to his departure. You will see to the troops and supplies are offloaded.”

“Your Imperial Highness.” Lieutenant-General Emme laboriously inclined his head. The wrinkling of his forehead revealed he did not like having his orders countermanded.

The ranking Russian on-board the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan turned to his right and addressed the taller man standing there, “Lord Walditch, may I please have the His Imperial Majesty’s instructions concerning your part of our enterprise.”

It amused Kurt to see the expression on Lieutenant-General Emme’s face change when he recognized the title to be foreign. In an instant, Lord Walditch knew of the defence commander’s disdain for what he represented, and it gave him a sense of pleasure to hand over the packet with a broken seal.

The Grand Duke held the folded parchment out to the Lieutenant-General in a similar manner to which he gave Baron Kuznetsoy his instructions. The area commander took the papers from the Grand Duke’s with evident care, opened them and read. When it became apparent, he got to the bottom where the royal seal lay, Bleyn enquired, “Any questions, Lieutenant-General Emme?”

“No, Your Imperial Highness,” the Lieutenant-General replied with less arrogance.

Holding his hand out as if expecting to have the royal command returned to him, Bleyn appraised the Lieutenant-General. The officer had an excellent military record, and, by all reports, his men under his command showed complete loyalty. However, the man’s bearing irritated the Grand Duke. Bleyn looked the officer up and down and added, “Furthermore, there are four British ships of the line at the entrance of Dvine River. They fought against the French as part of the escort of this fleet. They will require repair and resupplying as well.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness,” Lieutenant-General Emme inclined his head, exposing his diminished confidence to those around him.

“Baron Kuznetsoy, Captain Ivanov. Thank you for an entertaining voyage. My participation, as little, as if was, in a sea battle will be remembered. I now see that combat on the waves is no less dangerous or clever than a land battle,” the Grand Duke stated with all pride. Bleyn allowed the two naval officers the opportunity to show their respect with quick bows. With a tiny grin, he added, “Baron Kuznetsoy, please extend my gratitude to the captains of the fleet for a job well done and send word to our British allies they can come upriver.”

“Your Imperial Highness, I would believe it prudent the British sailors and marines remain confined to their ships. We want to prevent possible unpleasantness,” Lord Walditch spoke in Russian though his accent made his sound different. He then glanced over his shoulder at Lieutenant-Wensworth, knowing his father would want this.

The Lieutenant nodded and then said, “Confined except where it is expedient in order to make repairs, Your Lordship.”

“Excellent suggestion, Lord Walditch, Lieutenant,” Grand Duke Bleyn concurred. “May I impress on you, Lord Walditch, to write such a command to Captain Edgar of the Saint Vincent. Baron Kuznetsoy, will you see it delivered with an invitation for the Russian and British commanders to join us at Riga Castle for dinner this evening.”

The fleet commander bowed with a barely noticeable grin, and correctly responded, “At once, Your Imperial Highness.”

In the corner of his eyes, Kurt watched the guarded annoyance on the Lieutenant-General’s face and the delight in the fleet commander’s eyes. Command rivalries occurred no matter the nation or army. In Spain, Kurt quickly learned that the politics within military ranks challenged that of state and government. It all stemmed from power, and in this instant, Bleyn symbolized a direct link to the power of the throne hundreds of miles away. Failing to recognize Bleyn proved to be a mistake on the Lieutenant-General’s part, but now, Kurt sensed something peculiar within the tension.

“Lieutenant-General Emme, yesterday was a long, weary day, and I wish you to convey me to Riga Castle,” the Grand Duke directed, and then he looked at the sun. It lay in the nine-o’clock position over in the east. “I will expect a full report on the present condition and the French positions at three this afternoon,”

The Lieutenant-General bowed and replied, “Your Imperial Highness.”

“Captain Smirov,” Bleyn looked to his left.

An officer in imperial livery stepped forward through the ranks of naval officers and bowed. “Your command, Your Imperial Highness.”

“I will inspect the guard this afternoon before meeting with Lieutenant-General Emme and his staff. I will expect you to be present, Captain.” Bleyn suddenly looked to Kurt. “I would appreciate your presence as well, Lord Walditch.”

“I would be honoured, Your Imperial Highness,” Kurt bowed while watching the Lieutenant-General for his reaction. The middle-aged officer remained stoned faced.

“Lieutenant-General Emme, you have better make preparation for our departure,” Grand Duke Bleyn replied, and the defence command bowed before turning to one of his junior officers.

Twenty minutes later, a troop of army cavalry, three abreast, rode through Riga's street. A short distance behind them came a single rank of the stately Imperial Guard in bright livery, with their lances tipped with yellow pendants being the Romanov coats-of-arms. Behind them rode Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov with Lieutenant-General Emme to his left and Lord Walditch on his right. The yellow Imperial banner flew from a single Imperial soldier riding directly behind the Grand Duke, followed by Captain Smirov and Lieutenant Wensworth and the Lieutenant-General’s adjutant. Two marines dressed in British followed the officers trailed by the remainder of the elite Imperial Guard, the rest of Lieutenant General’s staff and more cavalry. Some distance behind followed a wagon piled with baggage escorted by two privates and two Imperial Guardsmen under the command of a low-ranking officer.

The Lieutenant-General’s path took the royal party away from the river along a dirt street lined with industrial buildings, warehouses, and dilapidated housing. Civilians went about their business with barely a glance unless they strolled the street. Monks and nuns handed out food and blankets to the refugees huddled in alleys and under the eaves of buildings. Drunken men and the occasion tipsy soldier dodged the wagons moving goods to and from the docks. Some people stepped forward, begging as the troop rode by, and others scattered out of the way. Teenage boys busied themselves in front of a large warehouse around helping the wounded from wagons. Further up the street, a cheer went up from a large detachment of soldiers that split their ranks down the middle to allowed the riders to pass.

Dirt and gravel gave way to cobblestones when the mounted men reached the avenue leading to the bridge crossing a wide moat before the thick city walls. The street narrowed as they clattered across the stone structure and under the thick arch protecting stout gates backed by large iron portcullis lowered down from above. Stones and wood buildings lined both sides of the two streets occupying the space between the large modern outer walls and the medieval walls surrounding the oldest part of the city. These weak inner walls offered little protection against the weapons of the day, and the absence of gates underscored this fact. Two church spires rose over the rooftops as they headed to the southwest back toward the river. They turned west along the river occupied by ships of different types and sizes, toward the moat surrounding Riga Castle. The guard at the fortress gate snapped to attention when the cavalcade entered the inner courtyard where the remainder of the Lieutenant-General’s staff and various other government officials gathered. Ranks of infantry and cavalry stood in exacting lines across from the stairs leading into the castle. Once the procession passed through the wall, the soldiers yelled a rousing God Save the Tsar.

The enthusiastic greeting invigorated Bleyn, who felt himself sway in the saddle at the halfway point. The Lieutenant-General’s choice of the route had a purpose the Grand Duke appreciated. The sight of the Imperial flag drew the commons and soldiers into the streets to cheer, lifting morale. Regardless of the turbulent greeting, Bleyn knew he would have to congratulate Lieutenant-General Emme because he did not neglect the refugees. Not only did Bleyn notice the clergy helping the disadvantaged, but he saw teams of soldiers passing out food and blankets from wagons. The plight of the common folk usually went unnoticed during a military campaign, as marauding troops scavenged and availed themselves of the innocence of women.

Boys in livery ran to the horses taking the officers' reins, allowing them to dismount and stretch their legs. As he swung his leg over the back end of her stallion, the Grand Duke offered Kurt a quick glance and received a shy smile in return. The fond memory of Kurt’s angelic voice rose in the Grand Duke’s mind reminding him he must control the urge to experience his poignant pitches again. When Kurt started to sing in low tenor tones, a shiver resonated up the Bleyn’s body, and then Lord Walditch jumped octaves into a higher range. Bleyn fell silent at this point as he basked in the skill of the man resting a violin on his lap. Lord Walditch became embarrassed when he realized the Grand Duke gawked at him. The friction reignited, and then Bleyn diverted it by urging another English song. Kurt laughed because it took a few bars to realize the Grand Duke did not know it. A little negotiation later, they sang a soft county piece together. The rising and falling of their voices captured Bleyn, and then he heard the hushed words―fate stalks you―echo within the lyrics.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Lieutenant-General Emme interrupted the Grand Duke’s thoughts as he stepped around his horse. “A room has been prepared for your convenience. Arrangements will be made for our foreign guest. I will have my staff convene at three o’clock to provide you with a full briefing.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant-General Emme,” Bleyn stepped away from his horse, feeling a little shaky in the legs. “I would prefer it that that Baron Walditch be housed close to my rooms.”

The Lieutenant-General glanced to a functionary wearing civilian livery who inclined his head in response. The tall, thin, older man said, “Your Serenity, I will see to it at once, and the arrangements for additional guests for dinner have been relayed.”

“Thank you, Levin,” Lieutenant-General Emme politely responded, and the officer turned to Bleyn and added, “Your Imperial Highness, there are matters I must attend to before we meet. My man, Levin, will see to your comfort and that of Baron Walditch.”

“I will not keep you longer than necessary, Lieutenant General. Thank you for the gracious reception,” Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov replied, and then he looked to Kurt as he walked away from the horses. Lord Walditch silently fell into step beside Bleyn, followed by Lieutenant Wensworth, Captain Smirov, the three soldiers of the Imperial Guard and two Royal Marines in red uniforms.

The outside of the castle looked like many older military fortifications updated to modern requirements. The narrow entrance opened into a grand hall decorated with shields, swords and banners from the bygone era spoke of the glory of medieval knights. Kurt glanced about at the heraldry, and a vision rose in the back of his mind. He sat on a large horse encased in metal armour, looking down into a lush valley with a river running through it. An arching stone bridge crossed the tumbling water connecting the building on either bank. A square keep grew up out of the trees on the opposite hill guarding the community and the critical waterway.

The man on the horse beside him wore a different armour style with a tabard of a unique monastic order of knighthood. The two men travelled for weeks from the Holy Land with their retinues trailing behind them. Here they parted ways after a dozen years of campaigning within the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Older and wiser than when they first met on the docks of Tyre, both knew their friendship would not end when one turned west and the other east. They had matters to take care of in their homelands, and if all went according to plan, they would meet again in six months in Lübeck.

A fond smile pulled at Kurt’s lips because he knew the Teutonic symbol embossed on the shield in front of him. The Baron tingled with the thought those two men bore affection for each other with their hearts and bodies. The strange tingling the Baron experienced mixed with his bold pronouncement. The heart rose in his chest only to drift back down on the realization the Grand Duke had not rejected himself outright. There could be no mistaking the resemblance between Grand Duke Bleyn and the shorter of the two knights. They both men processed dark curls and eyes that shot lightning into Kurt’s heart. The touch of a finger answered a dream, but would that dream find life.

A Russian Royal and a British noble followed the older man up the stairs at the end of the long hall, where they turned to the right. Levin bowed to the Grand Duke after opening the door to a wood-panelled suite that might be spacious for this castle but small compared with Saint Petersburg. Thick carpets kept the feet warm, and polished furniture glistened in the light streaming through the windows looking out into the central courtyard. Two chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the fireplace sat ready for a servant to set a brand to it. Bleyn peered at the bookshelf full of carefully placed volumes and smiled. A set of double doors led from the sitting room into a bedchamber of equal size with a large bed and a screen hiding a bathing tub in the corner.

“Levin, could you please arrange for baths for myself and Lord Walditch,” Bleyn asked as he walked over to the window. “And a light meal?”

“At once, Your Imperial Highness,” Levin bows. “Lord Walditch, would you please come with me, and I will show you to your chamber.”

“Thank you, Levin,” Kurt replied in Russian. “Your Imperial Highness, may I call on you prior to you inspecting the guard.”

“Please do, Lord Walditch,” Bleyn replied with a small smile.

The Baron of Walditch bowed and stepped backward into the corridor to find Lieutenant Wensworth standing next to Captain Smirov. The Russian officer entered the Grand Duke’s room after, and two of the Imperial Guard took station outside the door. Lord Walditch passed several closed thresholds and turned a corner, and then the functionary opened a door. The room provided for the Baron’s comfort looked nothing like the one occupied by the Grand Duke. The floor had no rug, and the narrow window looked out into another wall. The average-sized bed appeared comfortable, and, thankfully, a tub rested in the corner of the room behind a screen. The wood piled in the fireplace looked fresh, and a low shelf had half a dozen books lying on one side. Lighting the candles would excise the room of its gloom, but not its staleness.

“Thank you, Levin,” Kurt says to the functionary. “I will be expecting refreshment and water for my bath.”

“Yes, Your Lordship,” Levin said in English before bowing.

Kurt watched the Lieutenant-General’s Master of Household shut the door, and then he suddenly felt the walls and ceiling squeeze in around him. Yesterday’s apprehension lingered in his muscles, dredging up doubts, and, regardless of the light-hearted mood created by harmonious lyrics, he felt not only tired but despondent. Lord Walditich desperately required a nap and a long moment alone to ponder. Did he reconsider his words? The answer caught in his throat, making it hard to breathe.

Stripping off his uniform coat, he carefully put it on the bed and stared out the window. If he looked out on an angle, he could see the outer city wall, the sun glistening off the river and part of the opposite bank. The sight made him feel heavy as if that thing he felt at sea prowled around out there. Somewhere to the south, Russia and France drew lines ripping up farms and forests, fouling nature and feeding a malignant force that once hid in walls of fog.

He stood there for a few moments with no real thoughts because his mind could not conjure them up. The motion of the rising and falling of his chest became his focus until a spike of pain corrupted his breathing as it had on the frigate. His fingers rolled up into fists as he fought against the bizarre sensation that something dark invaded his body. The neck rolled as he massaged his forehead and over his head to find the muscles on either side of his spine felt hard and strained. Similar to the Grand Duke, Kurt knew someone who might be able to answer their questions. The quandary became one that lived outside Saint Petersburg, and the other dwelled on an island hundreds of miles to the west.

With a sigh, he turned and flopped down on the bed. He closed his eyes, drawing in several deep breaths in an attempt to settle his discomfort. When the knock came, Kurt started and rolled off the bed as he called out. Seconds later, the door opened, and a servant entered the room with a tray of food and drink on it. Behind him came a line of boys, each carrying buckets of hot and cool water. The Baron watched and then looked up to see the Imperial Guard standing in the hall by the door.

Lord Walditch observed them fill the tub to the halfway point before he tested the water. He asked them to add more hot water, and when satisfied, Kurt dismissed them. He tossed his clothes on the bed and stretched before settled into the hot water. He shut his eyes with a sigh as he lay back, soaking in the leisure of the moment. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the heat sink into his muscles and then reached over and began nibbling on the cold meat and cheese placed on the chair he pulled close. It proved challenging not to think of Bleyn as he cleared his mind of the lingering hints of hatred he experienced. An image of those soft honey eyes proved the tonic, and then his body betrayed him as he grew into embarrassing arousal. A hand strayed into the water, and he inhaled a satisfied breath as he rubbed himself.

Another knock on the door alarmed Kurt, who found his hands resting on his private place. The sudden rush of cold water came as a shock, and he swore. The door burst open, and Lieutenant Wensworth stormed into the room with his hand on the hilt of his dagger to find His Lordship naked in the bath. Kurt splashed back into the water, and the Lieutenant laughed as he quickly closed the door.

The Baron of Walditch sputtered as he splashed in the tub, and then he yawned to hide his mortification. He mumbled, “I fell asleep.”

“Apparently, My Lord,” the Lieutenant politely answers as he handed the Baron something to dry his wrinkled body off.

Even though the Baron of With his buttock no longer exposed to the Lieutenant, Kurt smiled when he wondered what His Imperial Highness might think. A piece of flaccid meat, now discretely hidden beneath the cloth, twitched, and the Baron pitched himself to prevent a blush from racing up the Baron’s cheeks

Walditch had pride in his body, but he disliked others seeing him in this state. The firm muscles flattered his slim frame giving him a handsome shape and strength. Allowing the Lieutenant to see him naked embarrassed Kurt, but then military life permitted such moments. A modest upbringing made the sight of the naked form inappropriate, but events in Spain forced change. The men under his command thought nothing of stripping and jumping into a body of water to escape the swelting heat of the open plains. One particularly hot and dusty day, Kurt swallowed his pride and entered the water as modestly as possible to find the joy of the relief the liquid offered. He even found himself laughing with the men splashing and jumping around. 

“What time is it?” Kurt reached out to take the long cloth and hauled upright, covering his midsection.

“It is almost two, My Lord,” The Lieutenant inclined his head. He spun on his heel toward the door and stepped into the hall, picking up one of the trucks stacked against the wall.

“Has His Imperial Highness reviewed the guard?” Kurt glanced back at the five-foot-long tub.

Bumping the door back toward the latch with his hip, the Lieutenant placed the trunk on the floor next to the bed. With a smirk, he replied, “No, My Lord.”

Rubbing his torso with the cloth, Kurt peeked around the screen and said, “His Imperial Highness is determined to include me. Is it appropriate?”

“I think it is prudent, Your Lordship,” The officer commented as he opened the door to retrieve the second trunk. He kicked the door completely shut and then set the trunk on top of the other. “I would have come earlier, but I needed to speak to Samson and Blake.”

“Are they in trouble?” Kurt glanced peeked around the screen with a concerned look.

“No, My Lord.” The Lieutenant responded as he placed the second trunk on top of the first. “I just wanted to get them settled and pass along instructions.”

Kurt nodded. “I do not want issues.”

“I emphasized your desire, Your Lordship. “ The Earl adjutant opened the top trunk and started to pull out a folded uniform. “I think a show is needed.”

“Thank you for being attentive.” Kurt rubbed his eyes as he gazed at his bright red uniform.

Lieutenant Wensworth responded with a small smile. “Your father told me to take care of you, Your Lordship.”

The Baron strolled over to the narrow window to look at as he rubbed the cloth over his pale skin, exposing more of himself. “I will wear teal with the blue cape. The uniform I wore on the ship needs cleaning, and the red is too ostentatious.”

“I will see to it, your Lordship,” Wensworth continued to pull out articles of clothing, setting them in the wall cabinet.

“You do not need to do that?” Kurt said as he turned with the towel wrapped around him.

“I thought you would be more comfortable if I handled the more delicate elements of life while we are here, Your Lordship.” Lieutenant Wensworth stated.

“Yes, I appreciate it, Lieutenant.” Kurt understood the Lieutenant’s need for discretion.

“Your Lordship, I will help you dress and then escort you to His Imperial Highness,” the equerry to the Earl of Amblesey said as he laid out undergarments and the uniform.

“That will not be necessary, Lieutenant,” Kurt nonchalantly responded.

“I serve, Your Lordship,” the Lieutenant proudly stated.

“Indeed,’ Kurt offered a grin. “You have been with my father how long?”

“Since Portugal,” the officer replied as he continued to sort His Lordship’s clothes. “How many coaches have we ridden in together talking while His Lordship slept?”

Kurt chuckled. “A few.”

“Indeed,” Wensworth stated as he hung up the red uniform jacket. “You should know, His Imperial Highness has placed this section of the castle under the protection of the Imperial Guard,” Wensworth mentioned as he handed Kurt his undergarments.

“Peculiar,” Kurt muttered as a shudder ran up his back as if cold fingers walked along his spine.

“Your Lordship?” The Lieutenant questioned.

“Nothing.” Kurt paused with one leg in his knee-length undergarments. He glanced at the officer and stumbled on his words, “I think I can manage, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Your Lordship. I will await you in the hall.” The junior inclined his head and then left the room.

Fingers dragged down Kurt’s face, and then he released a huge sigh. In a low voice, he growled to himself, “You are a blithering clod pole2, Lord Kurt Hummel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Shanty – song, tune, lyric
> 
> 2 Clod pole – booby


	15. Pēternieki

**10 August 1812**

“The French are headquartered in Mitava, fourty miles south of here,” Lieutenant-General Ivan Fyodorovich Emme pointed down the slope and into the valley with untended fields between bands of lush trees. “Pēternieki is to the right of the hill where the Misa River has become a defensive line. We repelled a French attack in force two days before you arrived.”

“How were our loses, Lieutenant General?” Grand Duke Bleyn asked as he surveyed the green valley and the smoke drifting up from behind the nearby ridge.

“The commander reported heavy hand-to-hand fighting on the ramparts.” The Lieutenant-General nodded. “The column we passed are half the replacements we need.”

"What of the troops that came with us.”

“I am holding them back. The French will know the fleet arrived, but they do not know what it carried. When the cavalry and guns get her in two or three days, I can pull a force together and push the French of out Rajumi.”

“The bulge in your line.”

“Yes. I would like to blunt it and straighten out the line. It is also a place where they can exploit if they pull in enough troops. I have been informed Field Marshal de Tolly is in Poryeche with the Grande Armée close on his heels. Napoleon is concentrating on him, and the fact the French have settled into a siege here tells me Napoleon does not consider Riga important. We are outnumbered and outgunned, but the swamps are our best defence. All those mosquitos and muck permits me to concentrate forces where they are needed.”

“It also permits the French to concentrate their forces.”

“True, but their avenue of attack is narrow. They cannot spread out. We have forced them to come at us four of five lines deep instead of two. It is regrettable, but death works in our favour by demoralizing the rear ranks when they march over the bodies of those in front of them.

“Yes, it is regrettable,” Bleyn’s looked grim for a moment. “I am impressed, Lieutenant-General Emme. You have done an excellent job with what you have on hand. Baron Kuznetsoy should be back in a week with an additional twenty-five hundred troops. Upon my return to Saint Petersburg, I can proudly state the city’s defence is in good hands.”

“I have the refugees and peasants digging ditched and building ramparts to the north and south.” The Lieutenant-General went on. “I want to make it hard for the French if they decide to outflank Pēternieki. The village is the key because of its location on the road and the river. With swamps on either side, the farmlands in the middle make a natural route to the cities in the south.”

“I have noted you have treated the serfs well, Lieutenant-General Emme.” Bleyn stood in his stirrups to get a better view of the cloud of dust rising on the ridge.

“Starving peasants are an encumbrance when you are trying to keep a superior force in place.” The Lieutenant-General glanced toward the dust as well. “I cannot spare the troops to do keep the ramparts maintained and built more. I feed them and do not overwork them. It has gained the loyalty which makes the effort easier.”

“Have the French tried to breach the swamp?” Bleyn peered into the distance, where he saw wagons appear.

“The French tried to sortie through the swamp to the north three weeks ago. Woodcutters warned us, and we dispatched a force to confront them. They lost a quarter of their force without landing a single man on dry land. I have mounted patrols watching the swamps on both flanks.”

“That was lucky?”

“Perhaps, Your Imperial Highness. The people who make a living harvesting the swamp know all the natural paths and hazards. It is easy. We see smoke rising from the swamp, and troops are dispatched.”

“They are bringing out the dead.” Major Panin, Lieutenant General’s adjutant, commented as he pointed at the opposite ridge.

The Lieutenant-General sadly commented. “It cost us dearly blunting the French advance pushing them out of Pēternieki. I want Macdonald to think I have to keep the area at all costs.”

“Are you tied down?”

“I do not believe so, but I want them to think that. I have a cavalry reserve in Olaine not far from here. They can rapidly move out to plug holes in the line.”

“Until you strike at Rajumi and force the French to shift their focus,” Kurt stated in Russian from the other side of the Grand Duke. “The tactics you are employing are different from those we used in Spain, Lieutenant-General Emme. I have to admit I was skeptical, but with more observation, I can see you are employing a sound strategy.”

“The swamps in his area works to our advantage. I wanted to offload the troops you brought in Jurmala and march them down to hit the French weak north flank. I am happy to report, Your Imperial Highness, your denial of my instruction has proved correct. In a few days, I will be able to strike at the French without pulling too many troops out of the line.” The area commander glanced to Lord Walditch and added, “Your ships have been most helpful, My Lord. They have proved a hindrance to the French and Prussian navies. Their squadron has been blockading the river, and the battle you found yourself involved in sent them to lick their wounds.”

Inclining his head, Kurt replied, “You are most kind, Lieutenant-General Emme.”

The Grand Duke gave Lord Walditch a sideways look while trying to hide his trepidations. The two spoke little since they discussed the situation with other officers. Bleyn tried to include Kurt as much as he could, but the baron appeared content to observe. Now and then, he caught a glimpse of the sorrow in those blue eyes and heard moodiness in his voice. It took no stretch of the imagination to determine what bothered him, and it pained Bleyn to see the baron melancholy. The uncomfortable feeling in his chest demanded Bleyn take control of his fears and rectify the situation.

Guilt nibbled at Kurt because of the soft look the Grand Duke gave him. Lord Walditch embarrassed himself by letting his emotions get the better of him, and now a cold bath forced him to face reality. Regardless of a cousin who would inherit if Kurt died, the family required a legitimate heir, which meant marriage and children. Father and son frequently spoke of the estate’s good and bad times, and Kurt understood his father’s concerns. Sixty years go, his great-grandfather almost spent them into the poorhouse with his excessive schemes. The current Earl’s father brokered an arrangement for a rich bride for his son. Thankfully Lady Elizabeth and Lord Burton fell in love rather than live miserable lives many in society did. The present Earl managed the estate well, and it once more made a small profit, but the estate still required its heir to find a highborn wife with a respectful dowry.

The idea of being bound in a loveless marriage frightened Kurt. He liked Lady Marley Rose but did he love her. Could he love her? He thought he could do it, and then Russia turned his concept of life upside down. What he felt for a gorgeous Grand Duke overshadowed the sense of friendship he felt for the gracious lady. The burden title and position demanded he would marry her and have children. Grand Duke Bleyn would marry Princess Katrina and have children. The lump in Kurt’s chest told him he would end up spending the long days of his life dreaming of a man in a far-off land.

“We should ride on to the rampart, Your Imperial Highness,” Major Panin suggested from where he sat on a black horse next to Captain Smirov. The middle-aged man wore a black uniform with silver braid down the front and a triangle cap on his head. A white beard covered his cheeks, but not his chin, and he looked like he enjoyed his dinner far too much.

“Yes, we should,” Lieutenant-General Emme confirmed, and then he looked to his left. “Word would have spread of Your Imperial Highness’s presence in Riga, and the troops will be honoured if you celebrated their bravery.”

“After yesterday, I will never again doubt what a simple flag can do,” Bleyn replied with a smile. The Russian royal wore the Imperial Guard uniform with no honours at the insistence of Captain Smirov. The request irritated the Grand Duke until the Captain bluntly stated House Anderov had few heirs.

“A flag is as powerful as the man it represents,” the commander of Riga’s defence responded. “I can imagine the French reaction at its sight.”

“And they will want to know who is present,” Baron Walditch added to the conversation.

“Indeed, Lord Hummel,” the Lieutenant-General offered a naughty grin.

“Lieutenant-General, will you please lead on,” Bleyn replied with a glance at Kurt as if seeking his approval.

The black, red and white cross of the Russian army's flag caught the winds, as did the Imperial household's yellow banner as they started down the dusty path. The double-column, consisting of sixty mounted men, cantered along the road kicking up a cloud of dust. The nobles and three officers took the lead, followed by the standard barriers, followed by the Imperial Guard, British marines and traditional Russian cavalry.

Sometime later, they passed four slow-moving wagons carrying the uncovered bodies in French uniform toward a rutted path leading to a large trench dug in a field of tall grass. Bleyn looked back over his shoulder, and his handsome face grew glum. The look bothered Kurt, who, like all soldiers, experienced the aftermath of a battle. No matter the nation, it all came down to lines of scared men facing each other a few hundred feet apart, waiting for a ball of lead to rip into their bodies. It looked civilized and orderly, but the carnage overwhelmed all thought and emotion. The two nobles fought on horseback, and while grand, it had its dangers. Speed might help confuse those aiming rifles at a charge, but forming defensive squares doomed the horsemen.

When they reached the backside of the low slope upon which the defenders built the ramparts, the distinctive odour of death became prevalent. Bellowing columns of smoke rose from the campfires of the city of tents covering a field at the base of the hill. Soldiers lounged on the ground in groups or as individuals or lined up for a meal at the cook tents. A large number of men gathered around a damaged barn where soldiers with minor wounds waited to see the surgeon. Tethered horses stood in front of the stone and wood farmhouse behind the barn, indicating a command port. In the distance, monks walked across the field in the direction the wagons had gone.

All soldiers had a look after a battle, and Kurt and Bleyn knew it. Battles affected everyone in different ways, and no amount of training prepared someone for the horrors of reality and the stench of the aftermath. The soldiers looked tired, with many of them bearing bandages, and they did not care about the approaching riders at first. Then a cheer erupted from the closest gathering as the Imperial standard came into view. By the time the Grand Duke, a Lieutenant-General, and an English Baron crested the ridge, a rousing cheer of God Save the Tsar echoed out toward the French lines.

Almost as if God ordained it, the wind caught the Imperial flag, and the hundreds of weary troops roared their love for the Tsar. The Misa River sparkled in the bright sunlight at the bottom of the hill, where it lapped against the fortifications made of layers of wood, tumbled rock and packed dirt. The ruins of a watermill constructed next to a stone longhouse anchored the rampart to the northwest, where the river cascaded flowed out of the dense swamp a few hundred yards away. The slope beneath them consisted of series of trenches, trees stripped clear of their leaves and upended soil. A vast swath of the fortification along the riverbank appeared battered and bloodstained. The bodies in French uniforms lay among the Russians on the barricade, snagged on logs and fallen trees in the river. In the distance, under the protection of white flags, French troops collected their dead. These men stopped with the clamour rising from the Russian lines where a yellow flag flew on the hill. Dust rose from among the French ranks as several horsemen galloped toward a hill three miles away.

Scores of cheering troops abandoned the camp and swelled over the hilltop to join the growing enthusiasm amongst troops finishing the grizzly two-day job of removing the dead. A large man with broad shoulders and a bandaged head stood out within a large band of cheering soldiers because he towered a good six inches over most men. The scar running down his handsome, shaved face added to his character, but most notedly, he had lost one of his arms above the elbow sometime in the past. His uniform had a few tears giving the impression he fought to keep the French from the ramparts.

The impressive man stomped up the dusty slope, followed by a dozen officers while the troops cheered the flag. Stopping a few feet from the mounted men, he saluted and bowed. He said in a deep bass voice, “Lieutenant-General Ivan Fyodorovich Emme, it would seem you have increased your station.”

“My situation has not changed, Colonel Yusupovi,” the Lieutenant-General replied with a candour that indicated such exchanges might be commonplace between the two men. He then looked to the young man beside him. He added, “Colonel Yusupovi, may I present His Imperial Highness, Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov, nephew of our beloved Tsar Aleksandr.”

“It is an honour, Your Imperial Highness,” the colonel and his officers deeply bowed. When he stood at his full height of almost seven feet, he added, “As you can see, your presence has made an impression upon the troops.”

“The determination of those defending Mother Russia is dear to my heart, Colonel,” Bleyn replied with a bright smile. “With your permission, I would like to address those who performed their duty on behalf of His Imperial Majesty.”

The Colonel glanced at the Lieutenant-General, who inclined his head. Orders went out, and the weary troops gathered between the trenches and the sparsely leafed tree at the ridge's summit. Climbing up on a nearby rock, the Colonel raised his one arm waving his arm. Standing as tall had he could, the defence commander yelled like a drill sergeant, “Defender of Pēternieki, why do we shed our blood. For our Tsar and Mother Russia!”

As loud―God Save the Tsar―rose from the ranks sending a tingle through Bleyn. Bright honey toned eyes fell on Lord Walditch for a brief time, and he felt suddenly warm.

“Our beloved Imperial Majesty sees our struggles,” the Colonel yelled. “He wants you to know you do not fight alone.”

Another rousing―God Save the Tsar―cut the Colonel off as he turned to indicate the young man with curly hair sitting on a horse.

“Son of Russia!” the defence commander yelled in a deep voice. “It is my great honour to present His Imperial Highness, Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov, nephew of our exalted most Imperial Majesty, Tsar Aleksandr Paulovich Romanov. God Save the Tsar!”

Another rousing burst roaring voices echoed over the fields where the French stood watching. Baron Walditch, with his small British escort grouped around him, listened to the young Grand Duke speak of pride, glory, and the indomitable strength of the Russian spirit. His words flowed with a passion, directly to the soldier’s hearts evoking the will to defend their families and homes. In Spain, the Baron watched Wellington inspire fervour in the troops with similar words mesmerizing them with the power of his presence. Then Bleyn did something Kurt had never seen before. He asked his standard-bearer to lower the yellow flag and reached out to kiss it. The Grand Duke then placed a hand on his heart and yelled at the top of his lungs―God Save Russia, God Save the Tsar. Those who heard his words yelled them back as the chant rolled along the length of the entire Russian line like a thunderclap.

A leg swung over the back of his horse as the Grand Duke dismounted. From behind, Captain Smirov signalled five fingers twice. In response, ten Imperial guardsmen, including the standard-bearer, alighted from the mounts trotted toward the Captain forming a circle around the Grand Duke. Bleyn noted the Captain’s closeness with a warm smile and looked up at the bright yellow ensign waving over his head. With little concern for himself, Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov turned to a dirty, bloodstained soldier and grasped his hands, thanking him for his service. The middle-aged man fell to his knees, kissing the Grand Duke’s hands. Bleyn then knelt in front of the man, saying a few words and then he rose to speak to the soldier next to him.

Lieutenant-General Emme viewed the Grand Dukes exchanges with great interest and then spied Baron Walditch. In a carefully crafted tone, he said, “Our young Grand Duke will make a great commander, one day Baron Walditch.”

The comment caught Kurt off guard, and he startled in the saddle. Never in his life had he witness such a feat. Quickly reasserting his composure, he replied in Russian, “His Imperial Highness, shows boundless regard for others. If he asked these men to race across that field and storm the French position, they would. Moreso, I believe His Imperial Highness would be there in the thick of it screaming with gusto.”

“Yes, they would. Baron Walditch,” the Lieutenant-General answered as he studied the young man with curly hair. “I see eminence in him, I have rarely seen since his grandfather. Yes, the Grand Duke is destined for prominence.”

While the tone stuck Kurt as a bit odd, he could not prevent himself from being proud. The soldiers gathered around Bleyn, and Kurt worried he would become lost in the crowd. He snickered at the thought because he admired the Grand Duke’s shorter stature. Something about Bleyn’s compact size made him went to pick the dear man up and hold him forever. Then he suddenly looked away in an attempt to rid himself of the thought. He slept poorly last night as his mood constantly flipped. Before he bathed, he wanted an answer, and afterward, it scared him. The briefing and the dinner that followed proved trying as duty and sentiment clashed yet again. The long sullen ride from Riga this morning provided no alteration in his topsy-turvy disposition.

Kurt saw Bleyn look back at him with a huge smile from the mass of soldiers, and then he vanished. Lord Walditch blinked and then followed the Imperial banner's progression through the mass of humanity towards the barricade overlooking the river. Worried blue eye scanned the water and the corpses, noting the cloud of dust rising in the distance. Then, from behind a stand of trees that somehow survived the raining cannonballs, appeared a small party of cavalry under three colourful standards. Lord Walditch glanced at Lieutenant-General Emme, who, by his reaction, did not consider it a threat.

“Look! Someone of French notoriety comes to see why we Russians cheer,” Bleyn yelled as he pointed out into no man's land between the two opposing forces. Then he started to sing a deeply patriotic Russian song loudly.

“Sing!” Lieutenant-General Emme yelled. “Sing for Russia. Sing for our Tsar.”

Russian troops up and down the line broke into song as some ran to the barricade's edge to bear their naked buttocks to the French. The singing lasted some time, and it slowly changed into a derogatory verse about Napoleon and his lack of male attributes. Kurt sang along with the English version of the song after finding the outpouring of sentiment overwhelming. He noticed Bleyn standing on an outcropping above the heads of the troops, staring at him. The sight of the Grand Duke’s infectious grin warmed Kurt down to the bottom of his feet, hardening his resolve.

Out on the field, the French cavalry moved closer while remaining well out of rifle range. The sun flashed bright off three polished items within the French ranks, and Kurt knew they tried to determine who roused their oppositions to such heights. Bleyn noticed and raised his arms, screaming at the top of his lungs―God Save the Tsar. The chant displaced the song as a decisive roar spread through up and down the Russian line.

A sigh of relief escaped Kurt’s lips when the Imperial flag started to move into the crowd again, spreading a sense of pride with it. From his horse, Kurt saw the determination of the troops stiffen before his eyes. Some minutes later, Grand Duke Bleyn jubilantly stepped out of the crowd of soldiers who chanted and taunted the French.

“Absolutely marvelous, Your Imperial Highness,” Lieutenant-General Emme stated as he got down from his horse, offering the Grand Duke a smile and a short bow. He adds in a lower voice, “Morale has been an issue. Arousing words can do much, but the presence of a member of the Imperial family is a tonic no physician can produce.”

“Perhaps we should ride the line, sir,” Major Panin suggested as he watched the French cavalry with a telescope. “It might give our friends out there something else to think about.”

“Major, I like your thoughts,” Grand Duke Bleyn replied with a smile. “What say you, Lord Walditch?”

Blue eyes fluttered, and the baron grinned. “It is most appropriate that the men elsewhere experience the flag and your presence, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Yes, I dare say it would, Lord Walditch,” Bleyn replied with a smile. “Lieutenant-General Emme, where would you suggest?”

“To the northwest, Your Imperial Highness,” the Lieutenant-General answered. “I think we should spend more time in the south. The swamp is not as dense there, and the men have been hard-pressed.”

“The French are looking for an advantage?” Kurt asked.

The area commander regarded Kurt with an insincere look. “Yes, Lord Walditch. They make attacks at irregular times testing. I believe their assault the other day was a result of their failures in the swamp. It is my belief they think we moved troops to reinforced other regions.”

“You led them on?” Bleyn questioned.

“I must be truthful. If it were not for those who know the swamps, the French would have recaptured Pēternieki three weeks ago.” Lieutenant-General Emme did not look impressed. “The French sent nearly two thousand troops through the swamps, and they would have been in a position to hit us in the flank.”

“A coordinated attack,” Lord Walditch observed. “Marshall Ney successfully used similar tactics in Portugal to his advantage.”

“The French have a few imaginative generals, and Macdonald is not one of them,” the ranking officer replied. “He has forced me into a battle of attrition to force for this tiny ridge.”

“The prize in Rājumi,” Kurt observed.

“Knock me off that ridge near Rājumi, and he will be in Riga south of the river the next day,” Major Panin stated.

Kurt nodded. “Cutting off your retreat.”

The supreme commander of Riga’s defence grimly nodded.

“Then, let us strengthen the resolve of all you brave defenders.” The Grand Duke remounted.

The troop rode along the ridge top to the cheers of the soldiers below. Fewer troops held the north, and the piles of lumber and carts of stone told a story of continued work. Here they build up a mound back from the slow-moving wide expanse of murky water choked with reeds. A mix of soldiers and peasants worked to strengthen a defensive line consisting of stacked logs bound together by ropes. Several burly men wearing leather coats and thigh-high boots moved within the ranks carrying logs on their shoulders or swinging axes to chop them up. Major Panin informed His Imperial Highness, the French brought their guns into the swamp and bombarded the defences for three days to cover their troop movement in the marsh. The commander took advantage of the volunteer’s knowledge to take a hundred men into the mire taking the six French guns by surprise. The Russians turned the guns on the French force spotted the day. When the guns opened fire, the troops waiting in ambush forced the French into a bloody retreat.

Bleyn shared a drink with the woodsmen to hear their stories, and then the Grand Duke heaped praise on them. Some of the civil force asked to touch the standard, and, Bleyn permitted it. A fifty-year-old man with torn clothes kissed the flag and sobbed his praises of the Tsar. In a heartfelt move, the Grand Duke reached into his saddleback and offered the man his spare jacket. The Lieutenant-General and Lord Hummel exchanged glances even as Kurt’s heart pounded in his chest. 

Major Panin pointed to the far side of the swamp where a French flag appeared within the trees a mile and a half away. In response, Lieutenant-General Emme roused the troops into a loud chorus of chanting. Afterward, they rode up onto the ridge heading south, knowing the French would follow.

The southeast end of the defence line snaked along the enlarging waterway at the other end of the river. Again they found peasants and soldiers busy digging holes back from the swamp’s edge and then pounding large tree trucks into the holes using heavy stones, scaffolding and pullies. Further down the line where the vertical supports stuck out of the ground, the laid logs horizontally creating layers backfilled with rock and dirt. On the island closest to the manmade barriers, sweaty men cleared the vegetation, ensuring an attacking force had no cover. Half a mile back from the beehive of activity stood a short hill with gun emplacements dug into it. From here, four captured French cannon had the range to reach out into the islands.

After an inspection, the troop of command officers and their escort retired to the nearby camp to eat. Lieutenant-General and his staff became embroiled in an intense discussion, which Bleyn avoided. The Grand Duke retreated, finding some shade under a tree where he sipped water from a water skin. His throat felt raw, and he needed a moment to relax and collect his thoughts. The yelling soldiers feed his ego, making him feel incredibly proud and invincible. The idea of walking amongst the grimy men cleaning up and repairing after a hard-fought battle came to him suddenly. The fear did not settle in until he stood with a sobbing soldier kissing his hands. The possibility of a knife in the back never occurred to him because their expressions exuded genuine pride. No, his trepidation came from within since he could not believe he did it. Then the look on the woodman’s face when he offered him his casual jacket brought made it all worth it. If today proved anything to the Grand Duke, he would never be his father or uncle. He cared too much.

The gnarly bark dug into the back of his head even though his curls acted as a cushion. Every so often, he looked back to find the Baron of Walditch watching him from where he stood with men of his escort. The sight buoyed the Grand Duke, who forgot the adversity three simple but highly charged words created in him. He felt the edge of something earth-shattering, lying just beyond his reach, conflicting with the phrases instilled in each man since childhood. The world around him became shades of red as the sun heated his eyes driving all thoughts from his mind. He floated in this place, feeling his body become lighter and then the snapping of a branch close to him ruined. A little annoyed, he drew in a deep breath and looked up to see a dark shape blocking the sun.

“Are you too tired for a stroll, Your Imperial Highness?” Lord Walditch’s English words disrupted the Grand Duke’s respite.

Bleyn smiled up at the British noble while shading his eyes with his hand. Slowly climbing to his feet, the Grand Duke quietly replied, “Anything for you, Lord Walditch.”

“I found something I want to show you,” Kurt replied with an impish little smile, and he turned to walk toward a thick stand of trees down the slope. Behind them, Captain Smirov whistled and held up four fingers.

Bleyn wondered what Kurt might have found other than an abandoned farm building. He grinned when they passed from the brush to find a well-used and maintained path leading to a wide, shallow ravine. Tall green trees occupied both sides of the gully where grasses and bright wildflowers grew beside grew meandering brook. A well-constructed wooden bridge crossed over a point where the water pooled in front of a row of purposely placed rocks. The breeze felt cool and carried a freshness dusty roads and earthworks did not have.

Two elbows landed on the weathered wood next to Kurt’s but a couple of feet away. A bright smile erupted on the Grand Duke’s face, and he said, “Trust you to find a place beauty among all the horror, Lord Walditch.”

“I’m not without motive, Your Imperial Highness,” the Baron replied as he glanced past Bleyn to see the soldiers loitering around the end of the bridge. He then gazed into those soft, amber-brown eyes and added in a determined tone, “I think it is time we talked.”


	16. Kesteri

**10 August 1812**

Shade and the cool breeze helped steady one of the most powerful men in Russia trembled. The simple statement held the complexities of his innermost thoughts of sin and devilish desire. They highlighted the fears he harboured since he first started to fulfill his biological needs in the privacy of his suite. Years after a show of his father’s anger toward a stable hand, a young man with dark auburn hair, and skin as white as fine porcelain, dredged those thoughts.

Baron Kurt Hummel, son of the Burton Hummel, Earl of Amblesey, acted most inappropriately with the stunning pronouncement he should never have shared. A respectable man would have challenged the bold assumption, but Bleyn, then and now, found himself to be less than exemplary. Three words doomed him in the eyes of a deity he did not fully accept as authentic and in society's fickle circles. The passing hours unravelled belief after belief leaving him with one haunting reality he could no longer deny. The disquiet he felt now tumbled about him like the men out there facing the guns. The problem became he faced something far worse than the guns―himself.

The ethical, moral and religious issues aside, a moment of solitude standing next to a soothing presence allowed Bleyn to sense the slow, constant drip of awareness filling his half-empty cup. The resolution of questions purposely obscured by a busy mind gave Bleyn a moment of pause. He now realized the cancerous intent drifting on ocean mists perceived as a means to seduce the Grand Duke. Something untoward happened that Bleyn did not understand, and the focus shifted as if the monstrous intellect grasped at the unthinkable. The tremendous thumping in his chest echoed the statements spoken to the second son by an ageing woman staring at bones spread on top of cards. With the moonlit lake in the background and sounds of baying wolves in the distance, her face cracked into a crooked, toothy smile. On a ship endangered by flying iron balls, the legitimacy of her meandering phrases blared within Bleyn like the trumpets at Jericho, striking an ethereal creature. For a second, Bleyn felt the transition between lives once lived and a future yet to be born open his soul to great compassion. Logic wailed against the incomprehensible, smashing the lid down on an imperfect seal. A shiver trickled down into the bottom of Bleyn’s feet as if the roots of the Earth somehow drew the lingering pestilence from him.

The locks of wavy hair plunging toward his temples gave the Grand Duke a skewed view of the man beside him. The sight tickled his heart urged him to break the long silence, but he found it challenging. A couple of seconds later, he muttered more to himself than Kurt, “I thought myself a brave man.”

Blue orbs hugged the corner of the eyes peering through sensuous dark locks at the heavenly honey brown. The pupils grew larger, and the colour of Bleyn’s eyes changed from light brown to yellow honey mixed with green. Life’s inner light illuminated a childlike innocence amalgamated with the strength of a powerful man. The varying hues became the notes of a hymn orated in a flowing language that sounded like music by itself. Each subtle beat spoke to the soul as if the limerick passed down through the ages sowing the seeds of life within the darkness of uncertainty.

The Baron blinked, shattering his eerie contemplations. He did not recall much of his early years, but he vividly remembered his mother singing and how the notes vibrated in his chubby little body. The limerick echoed in his thoughts as he grew, and now the man beside Kurt amplified the lyrics creating alluring emotion. Amazingly he now sensed the music resonating in the visions of two men living different lives that bubbled through his dreams and waking thoughts. Like the predawn hours spent below decks, the balance of two voices tantalized like the elbow less than an inch from his.

The Baron edged his arm over a fraction of an inch into Bleyn and then said in a quiet, oddly emotional tone, “Is it brave to charge the guns or foolhardy?”

The push against the cloth covering his skin excited Bleyn, who suddenly felt handsome and desired regardless of the dust and sweat. Bleyn nudged his arm into Kurt’s and whispered, “Is it fool hearty to speak your mind?”

Lord Walditch’s foot scrapped on the wooden planks, a few inches to his left. “Is it incautious to stand against God?”

“Is it imprudent to listen to your heart?” The Grand Duke tapped his boot on the bridge deck as it slid to his right.

“Would it be reckless of me if I want to listen to your heart?” Kurt stared straight-ahead, but he felt his boot strike another. He did not pull it back.

The toe of Bleyn’s boot lifted off the plank, and then he hesitated. Those watching would notice the action stimulated by his thoughts. “Is it irresponsible of me to admit I dream of that heart?”

“Would it be audacious of me to state I feel that heart?”

“Should I permit a small indulgence?”

“An indulgence freely offered?”

“An indulgence freely offered.”

“Would I be false to myself if I should admit such an indulgence would incite pleasure?”

A deep, shaky exhale escaped the Grand Duke’s mouth, and he tore his eyes away from the water flowing slowly through the grass and reeds. The line of Kurt’s jaw mesmerized, and the shape of his nose above the curve of his lips intoxicated. Unlike his roundish face, Lord Walditch had defined angles that gave him that classic look of ancient Greek and Roman sculptures.

“Do you like what you see, Bleyn?” Kurt enquired without moving his head. He could almost feel the handsome man next to him blush.

“Pardon, my brazenness, Lord Walditch,” the Russian slipped into formal tones as he fumbled his words intently embarrassed.

“Would it be injudicious of me to disclose that I enjoy looking at your features, Your Imperial Highness,” Kurt turned his head ever so slightly toward Bleyn.

The shorter man looked up through hooded eyes with a red glow to his skin. His tone, however, did not match the way Bleyn looked. “I find your words impulsive, sir.”

The Grand Duke’s trembling elbow informed Lord Walditch of Bleyn’s nervousness. With a cheeky little grin, he softly replied, “But not overhasty or unwise.”

“If not rash.” Bleyn’s voice wavered.

A small impish smile pulled at Kurt’s lips. “Rashness has its place in battle.”

A thick and dark eyebrow rose, exposing the mischief in soft brown eyes. “Are we waging an over adventurous war?”

“It would be careless of me not to assume a precipitous campaign where our swords lie at ease.” Kurt countered in a low and husky tone.

The Grand Duke gasped.

“Whilst they might otherwise be drawn,” Kurt stated before he could change his mind.

If Bleyn had not been standing with his back to the guards, they would have seen him flare red up to his hairline. Wide eyes stared up at Kurt with a combination of horror and unexpected delight. To hear such words from an upright fellow outraged, but then the growth of his silent flute1 spoke of their daring insinuations. Should His Lordship alter the focus, he would indubitably find a measure of satisfaction in how His Imperial Highness’s garments betrayed him. While Bleyn’s uppishness2 with himself irritated, he no longer doubted that the son of the Earl of Amblesey possessed him.

The sound of the Grand Duke choked on the air rushing into his lungs, informing his Lordship, he made his point. To forgo further innuendo and reduce the unease, Kurt considered an apologetic retreat as the appropriate action. Fortunately, the thrill of Bleyn’s endearing expression engrossed Lord Walditch. He tried not to stare and mostly succeeded. He held his gaze slightly to one side so that he could see a handsome face in the corner of his eye. The man’s mutable facial muscles captivated Kurt until he became aware of the slight moistness seeping from a portion of his anatomy.

The change on Kurt’s face did not go unnoticed by a shorter man who had no understanding of what it meant. He felt his heart tighten in his chest, and then he became aware of the awkward manner in which Lord Walditch tried to realign his midsection. He moved his head to a different angle because the pulse of flesh against soft cloth intensified. He suddenly found himself wanting to cool his passions, but at the same time, he did not want to insult the man who brought him so close to astounding pleasure. Luckily the sound of running boots on gravel proved the diversion the Grand Duke felt they both needed.

“Your Imperial Highness,” the officer called from the bend in the trail leading down to the bridge. “Lieutenant-General Emme would like to see you at once.”

The distant intrusion did not prompt the instant deflation as the Grand Duke desired. Conversely, the thought of being discovered heightened his engorged condition. To protect himself, he continued to lean against the railing even though he looked past Kurt. Without moving the bulk of his body, the Grand Duke called back, “One moment, Lieutenant.”

“Your Imperial Highness, it is important,” the junior officer shouted.

Bleyn gave Kurt a repentant look, and then he noticed the direction the British noble’s eyes peered. Heat ran up his chest and into the Grand Duke’s cheeks, and Kurt suddenly stood up straight while turning his back to the soldiers at the end of the bridge. Brushing his coat back, Kurt offered Bleyn the opportunity to measure the extended limits of his excitement, knowing it may be the wrong thing to do.

The young blond-haired officer stopped a couple of yards from the bridge deck. “Your Imperial Highness, it is important. You must come.”

The Russian royal gagged at the demand, and without looking away from a moment of gratification. In a stern tone, he instructed, “I said, one moment.”

The mortified officer quickly bowed.

Bleyn found it annoying, but he also understood the frantic nature of the officer’s voice. The man looked winded, and he would not have run all this way for some trivial matter. However, Lord Walditch had his full attention as his eyes once more dropped toward a gorgeous display. One deep breath later, he whispered, “Why do I feel we are conspired against?”

Blue eyes trailed down Bleyn’s uniform to the Grand Duke’s midsection taking note of the view. A broad, naughty grin stretched his lips, and Kurt quietly replied, “To keep us chase.”

The Grand Duke chuckled, and then, with the Baron blocking the view, Bleyn left nothing to the imagination when he boldly adjusted himself. One eyebrow went up and then said, “Thank you, Kurt.”

“You are welcome, Blaine,” Kurt gave him a slight smile.

“Blaine?” Bleyn’s brows pushed together, and he held up a hand to stop the officer from advancing any closer.

Kurt bowed his head and blushed, “Sorry, slipped into English. Blaine is the translation of your name.”

The right side of Bleyn’s face rose into the most delicious one-sided smirk that threatened to rouse Kurt’s settling manhood. In a quiet voice, Bleyn replied, “Blaine . . . I like it.”

“I can call you Blaine in private if you like.” Kurt leaned in and whispered.

“Yes, Lord Walditch, you may,” Bleyn spoke louder for the benefit of the impatient officer. “Thank you for your forthrightness. I will speak to my Imperial uncle. Please inform your father of our discussion when you return to Saint Petersburg.”

Kurt winked as he bowed. “His Excellency will be pleased, Your Imperial Highness.”

Managing a tiny smile, Bleyn turned his attention to the officer and bluntly asked, “Are the French attacking, Lieutenant?”

“Lieutenant-General Emme did not provide me with such information, Your Imperial Highness,” the Lieutenant stumbled on his words.

“Very well,” the Grand Duke grumpily replied, and then he glanced to his left. “Lord Walditch, if matters here are settled, will you accompany me.”

“I believe the impediment has settled, Your Imperial Highness.” Lord Walditch tried to retain a smile.

“I agree. Matters will no longer be encumbranced, Lord Walditch. Then our discussions are at an end for the moment,” Bleyn replied with a nod and started to walk.

While the larger question remained unsettled, Kurt’s heart fluttered with his achievement. Neither man spoke as they strolled up the slope to the top of the ridge, where the noise of people doing strenuous work assaulted them. Seven wagons arrived during their absence laden with heavy logs, and officers gathered under a canopy extending from the side of a building on the edge of the trees. Lieutenant-General Emme leaned over a large map pointing at various locations while explaining something to several officers. The Major commanding the ramparts rebuked his superior when he forcefully indicated something on the paper. The regional commander angrily waved two fingers in front of the officer’s face and then thrust them down onto the map.

A Russian royal and a British noble peered at each other when they noticed many soldiers saddling horses. Regardless of the increased excitement, the work on the wall continued at a measured pace. To Bleyn’s relief, this foretold no immediate threat, and he grinned at his Lordship, who stopped to speak to Lieutenant Wensworth.

Captain Smirov marched over and inclined his head, “Your Imperial Highness, we are preparing to depart. I have our horses ready, and the troop has gathered.”

The Grand Duke returned a puzzled look, but Lieutenant-General Emme caught his attention. The commander of Riga’s defence said with a severe look on his face, “Your Imperial Highness, troops engaged a Prussia patrol suggesting they may have found a path through the swamp.”

Major Panin, who stood beside the superior officer. “We lost three men with seven wounded. The Prussians retreated, and we have woodcutters trying to pick up their trial.”

The Lieutenant-General added. “I fear the French are going to make a move before I can.”

“Major Abdulov is sending patrols in force,” Major Panin pointed to the map drawing a line with his finger.

The Grand Duke glanced down at the map studying the markings marking the swamp, forests to the east and the scattered farms to the north. He leaned in to get a better look, and then he placed a finger on the paper and said, “Is this the area you are worried about?”

“Major Abdolov will be able to cover the area from here to here,” Major Panin dragged his finger over the paper following the marked edge of the swamp.

“I see, Major,” Grand Duke Bleyn looked to the right and asked, “Lord Walditch, what would you do?”

Lieutenant-General Emme, Major’s Panin and Abdolov did not look happy when Kurt stepped forward to look at the map. Bleyn pointed at a few places, and then the Baron replied in Russian, “It looked to me the French are looking to flank either Rājumi or push toward Pēternieki. A breakthrough in that region has both vulnerable. I would send a cavalry force with rifles as soon as you can. It will take an infantry column half a day to reach the region.”

“My thoughts, Baron Walditch,” Lieutenant-General Emme nodded in agreement giving the British Captain an appraising look.

“I take it you sent couriers to Riga,” Bleyn asked as he studied the faces around him.

“I also sent riders to Rājumi and Pēternieki with a warning,” the supreme commander replied. “We will be riding to Galini, where I will dispatch a force toward Rājumi. Then we ride on to Stūnīši to await the troop from Riga.”

A sergeant forced his way through the crush of officers and smartly saluted, “Lieutenant-General Emme, your escort is ready to depart.”

“Thank you,” the Lieutenant-General turned to Bleyn, “Your Imperial Highness, we have a hard ride before us if we are to get to reach Stūnīši before nightfall.”

The cavalry column cantered along the path beaten into a hayfield toward the post set several miles back from the defence line. Shirtless, bandaged soldiers and many women cut swaths in the tall grass while others collected piled it into wagons. Three uniformed men standing just off the well-trodden path saluted as the Lieutenant-General rode by. Like Pēternieki, no one knew Bleyn, and he did mind. The young Grand Duke felt overwhelmed in Saint Petersburg but coming to Riga filled him with a sense of purpose. His actions proved that Bleyn would be more like his Uncle Nicholas rather than his other Imperial uncles. As a teenager, Bleyn knew little of the history between his uncles and his father, Tsar Paul. Rumour portrayed their relationship as strained, and when he asked, Bleyn found his curiosity directed in other directions. Since then, he learned one of his uncles craved to retain power, while another coveted it, and the third shuffled back and forth in the space between the two.

So many complicated thoughts for such a young mind, and at times he wondered why his head had not exploded. He only needed to look to Baron Walditch riding next to him to find the equilibrium to settle his swaying doubt. Perhaps God did exist, and this man came to him at this point of life to show him there could be freedom. The boa constrictor of society and nobility may never truly let him go, but the taste of liberty prickled his tongue.

The area supply base consisted of a city of tents spreading out into partially harvested wheat fields surrounded by dense forest. A large house lay in the center of a compound composed of two barns and half a dozen outbuildings. Troops drilled in the hot sun, and horsemen trotted along the road leading to the four points of the compass. Civilians worked alongside soldiers transferred the hey from wagons to piles next to the paddocks containing dozens of horses. Elsewhere, wagons unloaded with barrels of powder and shot into barns while men stacked bails against the outer wall. The sound of hammers pounding on metal came from the blacksmith where crews repaired wagons and weapons.

Much like other locations in the region, activity slowed when a cavalry unit thundered down the road under the two banners. Cheers went like waves through the troops who stopped marching to watch a member of the Imperial family ride toward the farmhouse used as a command centre. A short stalky man ran from the two-story farmhouse tugging on his uniform jacket when the riders approached through a wide avenue between rows of tents. The fourty-year-old fumbled with his buttons as junior officers hurried to join him.

“Lieutenant-General Emme,” the man saluted the moment the horses came to a halt. He managed to get the last button in its proper place before his superior threw his leg over the back of his horse.

“Major Zhabin, call all units to action stations,” the Lieutenant-General commanded as he handed the reins of his mount to a nearby soldier.

“Yes, sir,” the major glanced up at the mounted members of the Imperial Guard and the Romanov flag.“Snap to it, Major!” the Lieutenant-General barked.

The major jumped and turned to a Captain, who trotted off. A few seconds later, the call of a bugle echoed out into the valley. Soldiers dropped what they did and hurried to their marshalling areas forming companies of closely packed men with their rifles resting on the shoulders. The women in the camp got out of the way of the scrambling men.

“Major Zhabin, may I present His Imperial Highness, Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov,” the Lieutenant-General turned a quarter turn and inclined his head indicated the dust-covered young man with curly hair.

The major and all those around him bowed, and when he straightened up, he said, “Your Imperial Highness, it is an honour.”

“Thank you, Major Zhabin,” Bleyn held his back straight. “I do not want to waste time on ceremony. Lieutenant-General Emme has important issues to discuss with you, and time is of the essence.”

The Major’s eyes went wide, and he glanced at his superior. The Lieutenant-General nodded, “I want two hundred fifty cavalry ready to leave in half an hour and half a thousand infantry ready to march in an hour.”

The major became attentive and passed along orders to the officers who already arrived.

“Lord Walditch, we will leave Lieutenant-General Emme to his preparations and ride to the ridge to the north. I want to take in the lay of the land,” Grand Duke Bleyn statement sounded more like a command than a suggestion.

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness,” Kurt inclined his head, wondering why.

“Captain Smirov, you and your men will accompany us,” Bleyn said to the officer, and then he turned to the Lieutenant-General and added, “Send someone when you are ready to depart.”

“Your Imperial Highness,” the Lieutenant-General gave the Grand Duke a curious look.

Ten minutes later, fourteen horses entered the forest at the apex of a bump surrounded by flat fields. Bleyn pulled his stallion up and turned to look down at the camp, taking note of the activity and then he sighed. Swinging his leg over the rump of his horse, he said, “Captain Smirov, rest the men and horses. Lord Walditch, would you walk with me.”

The Captain inclined his head, and the men of the escort dismounted and took their ease. Smirov watched the Grand Duke as he walked through the trees with the Baron a few feet from his side. He did not doubt the Captain’s loyalty to his Imperial uncle's commands, the manner in which the officer constantly watched Bleyn concerned. The idea he Captain may have orders beyond those the Grand Duke knew of did not surprise. The question became, did he suspect that something?

Bleyn felt the officer’s eyes on him and frowned. Scratching his cheek, he cautiously said to the man beside him, “We are being observed, and I would like to be discrete.”

Kurt stopped and placed his hands behind his back and waited until his Imperial Highness realized what he had done. A few steps later, the curly-headed man pulled himself up short and turned with a surprised expression. Wiggling his mouth back and forth, Bleyn stepped toward Kurt with irritation on his brow. His left hand fell on his hip, and then he shook his head with a sigh.

Lord Walditch leaned forward with his chin jutting out, and in a hushed tone, he asked, “What is the twig?”

The handsome face across from Kurt scrunched up, and then, Bleyn shook his head. “Twig?”

One of Kurt’s eyebrows went up, and he smiled. “It is an old county term, asked when one is confused.”

“I see.”

“And?”

“I needed to get away from Emme.”

“He is irritating.”

“He is my uncle’s creature.”

“I thought as much.”

“He may be an excellent officer, but I do not trust him. We need to be careful.”

“Coming out here is being careful?”

“No, but we need to talk, and I do not think we will get another chance.”

“Do you think Emme would manufacture something?”

“No. I do believe he will try to separate us.”

Kurt’s head sank. “That may be a wise thing.”

“Is that what you would like?” Bleyn looked deeply concerned and then stepped to his right a few feet and pointed toward the east. “Play along.”

“No,” Kurt responded to the first statement as he peered to the east. He under folded his arms making a gesture for the benefit of those watching and shaded his eyes as if he tried to study something in the distance. After their engaging conversation couple of hours ago, Kurt understood the need for caution.

“Good, because I thought it a ludicrous thought.”

“Blaine, we have to be realistic. Emme is not an unintelligent man.”

“I think he is not certain how to proceed.”

“And that makes the situation unsteady. Do you think your uncle sent him instructions?”

“After we were shown our rooms in Riga Castle, I stood staring out the window for a short while thinking. I saw an officer from the Tikhvenskaya Bogoroditsan report to Emme in the courtyard and hand him a letter. I think we can safely assume Konstantin at least wants a report.”

Kurt inhaled, followed by a sour grin. Pulling himself fully upright, he then asked, “I hope you do not want to speak only of plots?”

“No,” Bleyn turned away from Kurt and swept his arm across the horizon for the Captain’s benefit than Kurt.

“May I say you are cute when you are nervous.” Kurt offered a bright smile.

Bleyn’s head fell to the left as he once more found himself pondering his previous thoughts. He quickly shook his head and then he quietly blurted, “Kurt, I do not know what I am doing.”

The British lord smirked. “Neither do I . . . Blaine.”

The Grand Duke beamed, and then his head dropped to his chest. “You frighten me, Kurt.”

Kurt’s heart leapt into his throat, and he stepped back as a worried look crossed his face. For two days, he prepared himself for the inevitable letdown and here it came. Foolish best described his actions, yet he followed the sentiment swelling his heart, especially after the recent unorthodox display. He unconsciously worried his lip, as he tried to keep his emotions as upbeat as possible.

The Grand Duke suddenly bit his lower lip. “I am such an imbecile.”

The sorrowful look on the Grand Duke’s face dispelled Kurt’s apprehensions, and he compassionately said, “Perhaps you would like to rephrase?”

“Yes, rephrase,” Bleyn swallowed and then offered the Baron an innocent little smile. “Kurt, you must know that I greatly esteem you.”

“Yes, I do. I was the one who embarrassed myself stating my intentions.”

“You showed you are braver than I am.”

“Foolhardy, perhaps?”

“You must know that your finger on mine has undone me, and I find myself unprepared for what I feel.”

“Your . . . Blaine.” Kurt felt the heat rising in his cheeks. “I am afraid as well.”

“Of us or fog.”

“Both.”

“Ludmila will have answers.”

“Blaine, at this moment, I am concerned about us.”

“We should be concerned about both.”

“I know, but unspoken words hang over us like a thunderstorm that has not found its full strength.”

“We have known each other for what, a few days.”

“And we have but days left.”

“I know.”

“Is that what has you upset?”

“You have given me hope, Kurt. Now I am going to lose it.”

“It is lost if you allow it to be lost, Blaine.”

“But―”

“Blaine, you have given me a taste of an alternative to― “

“To the life, we must live.”

“To the life, we could have.”

“And you took a chance.”

“One I will never regret even as I watch my children get married.”

Blaine swallowed hard and gazed into Kurt’s beaming eyes, feeling the truth in his stomach. His eyes briefly ducked as he gathered his strength only to curse the interruption of a raised voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Silent flute – Penis
> 
> 2 Uppish - Testy, apt to take offence
> 
> 3 Sugar stick – penis


	17. Kesteri Swamp

**10 August 1812**

Augmented by ten additional brothers of the blade1, a young pot-marked and chubby-faced officer escorted His Imperial Highness to Rājumi along a worn track advancing to the northeast. Four members of Imperial Guard and an equal number of regular cavalry rode in front with their guide, Lieutenant Shchyotkin. A Russian royal and a foreign noble followed directly behind, with Captain Smirov and Lieutenant Wensworth trailing them. The marines and the rest of the troop ranging behind them. At Captain Smirov’s insistence, the soldiers carried extra weapons and ride under no banner. The officer carefully folded the Imperial flag, placing it in a leather carrying case and handed it to his charge. Grand Duke Bleyn slid the courier bag’s belt around his hip with a thankful nod.

They trekked down a dusty, well-worn road weaving through the farms until they halted by a trodden path leading into a stand of trees in the distance. Hooves clashing with stone or snapping branches announced the passage of twenty-six mounted men through the foliage. Birds chattered in the trees growing from dark brown soil like so many sticks topped with green umbrellas. The coolness of the trees came as a relief, and the vegetation kept the dust down.

Sometime later, Lieutenant Shchyotkin called for a break in a small clearing where young trees grew around the rotted fence. Sliding down from his horse, Baron Walditch stretched his legs and arched his back. He glanced toward the head of the column, but his eyes stopped at a young man sitting on his horse rolling his shoulders. Grand Duke Bleyn appeared the same as others in the troops. It saddened Kurt to see this because all great men travelled with some mark to denote their importance. The absence of a grand uniform and the Imperial signet somehow diminished the Grand Duke.

The dust-up2 between the Grand Duke and the Lieutenant-General earlier this afternoon came to mind. The senior command officer announced his intention to ride on to Stūnīši, and Bleyn notified the Lieutenant-General he had decided to ride directly to Rājumi. The challenge illustrated the stubbornness of the high born when someone threatened their whims. How many times had Kurt witnessed his father in similar moments of discord? Then he saw himself and how he learned from such encounters. In Saint Petersburg, Kurt saw a person who barely understood himself and his staggering new role, and now he felt the man riding in front of him reached for something new.

A crunch of wood behind Kurt distracted him, and he turned to see Lieutenant Wensworth walking toward him, holding out a water skin. A grateful Kurt pulled the stopper and took a long draught. Swirling the water in his mouth, he turned and spat it out. Drinking again, he savoured the sensation of the warmish liquid slipping down his throat.

When he lowered the container, Kurt absently paused to explore the redness of his skin. The fair-skinned man enjoyed the sun because it warmed rooms and the body, but not how it altered his colour palette. Unlike the handsome Russian, who had a permanent faint brown pigment, Kurt painfully burned. Neither did he like the freckle’s exposure drew out of his skin because they made him look as if he suffered from some disease. He dubbed it the curse of the redheads even though his hair took on a brownish hue. Lady Rachel joked that the freckling made it easier to notice Kurt in a bright room.

“This forest reminds me of Nova Scotia,” Lieutenant Wensworth commented as he looked about at his surroundings.

“You were in the colonies?” The Baron of Walditch took one more swig and then handed the skin back with a thankful smile.

“For a few months, before being withdrawn to fight Napoleon,” the Lieutenant replied after drinking before offering the water to his Lordship once again.

Kurt shook his head and asked, “The lads are doing fine?”

Lieutenant Wensworth glanced over his shoulder to see the two men talked and said, “If they did not complain, I would be worried.”

“Silence is not golden in the army.” Kurt followed the gaze.

The officer grinned. “Blake says that Russian horses trot as if they are out to kill you.”

Patting the stallion he rode on the back of his neck, Kurt replied, “I think these are fine horses. Smirov told me they are bred for strength and stamina.”

“I can understand why. Russia is vast, My Lord.” The Lieutenant glanced about. “Thank heavens, we took a ship. Riding would have taken an eternity.”

“Saint Petersburg to Riga is a shorter distance than Southampton to Glasgow.”

“I was never good with figures.”

“I struggled with them as well. I would rather spend my time riding than doing my father’s books.”

“I will mention that to His Lordship.”

“I already have, and he told me to get to it.”

Lieutenant Wensworth shook his head and looked about as if seeing who is close. “A word of warning, My Lord?”

Kurt’s head snapped up from where he observed his horse chew down the tall grass with a furrow bow. He regarded the Lieutenant for a moment and then instructed, “Speak your mind.”

“I may be out of line, My Lord,” the officer kept his voice down. “I would not trust these Ruskies.

“Explain yourself, Lieutenant,” Kurt insisted in a low voice as he peeked here and there. He knew three Russians spoke English, but there might be others.

The man the Earl sent to watch over his son frowned and then replied, “Have you noticed we riding east?”

A foot shifted, and Kurt slowly turned as he looked up at the trees. The opening in the foliage over their heads allowed him to see the clouds, which did little good. Reaching into his pocket, he hauled out a compass and held it flat on his palm. The needle spun for a second, and north settled on a fifty-degree angle to the direction they travelled.

“Are you anxious we may have misplaced the sun?” tenor tones speaking in English commented from behind.

A prickle ran up Kurt’s legs as he swivelled on his toe, digging a dent into the soil. The brightness in Bleyn’s eyes contrasted his earlier grumpy nature warming Kurt on the inside. He scrutinized the man bobbing on the horse while they rode, wondering how he acted in his day-to-day life. Everyone had their practiced schedule, but when one found no obligations to constrain thought, what did one do. Kurt often daydreamed about things that resent visions now brought into reality. Did the Grand Duke daydream of objects or occasions that did not involve power?

Lord Walditch offered the Grand Duke a short bow, as did Lieutenant Wensworth before he withdrew. With a slight grin, Kurt softly replied, “Your Imperial Highness, you do recognize we are travelling east.”

“Lieutenant Shchyotkin informs me we are making good time and that the road is not far ahead,” Bleyn reassured Kurt. “He says we will reach Rājumi before it gets dark.”

Accepting the comment, Kurt nodded with a tiny shrug. “All these trees have me turned around.”

“I lost track of where we were soon after we left the fields,” Bleyn responded.

“Lieutenant Wensworth was just commenting on how expansive Russia is.” Kurt folded his fingers folded around the navigational instrument he held and put it back in his jacket pocket.

“Russia is endless, but unlike the British Empire, the sun does set,” Bleyn mused with a charming little smile.

A gentle chuckle rose in Kurt’s throat, and he grinned. “The sun never sets on the Union Jack.”

“Would you step apart with me for a moment, Lord Walditch,” Bleyn asked with a naughty little grin.

Kurt inclined his head and answered, “By all means, Your Imperial Highness. Have you something to add to our previous discussion.”

“We did not have time to speak before we departed, and I had a thought that might interest His Excellency,” Bleyn answered, maintaining the previous pretext. A broken-down stone shack partially obscured by dense brush came into view as he turned. Interested by the hovel, he started to walk that way.

The hard heals of boots cracked twigs beneath their feet as they pushed through the hip-high trees and shrub. An arm brushed the leaves aside as Kurt created an avenue for the man behind him. A few steps later, they entered a small patch of earth free of vegetation except a single dead tree. Its low branches stretched out toward the neighbouring life as if pleading for help.

Happy with the Grand Duke’s improved mood, Kurt playfully suggested, “His Excellency would be interested in your thoughts, Your Imperial Highness. He may even have a few thoughts to share.”

“You are a mind reader, My Lord?” Bleyn asked with a charming little smirk.

Kurt reached out and touched the bark of the deadwood. Part of it peeled away in his hands, and he watched it fall to the dirt. He then looked to the Grand Duke and breathlessly said, “When it comes to predictable people.”

One of Bleyn’s bushy brows went up, and he commented, “You are playing with me, Lord Walditch.”

“Perhaps, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Good. You did not object to my decision?”

“Why would I? I have no authority.”

“Believe me, you do.”

“Do I have that much of an effect?” The idea of a feisty, grumpy Bleyn excited Kurt and a piece of his anatomy pushed into the fabric of his pants. The head stretched the tight folds of skin-hugging the expanding docking instrument.

“I think you know you do,” Bleyn ducked his head in an attempt to hide a sultry smirk. The sudden call to mount up echoing through the trees quickly settled matters.

The Grand Duke looked to the head of the column where Lieutenant Shchyotkin mounted. Bleyn rolled his eyes and frowned before whispering, “I would have enjoyed speaking with you for a few moments longer, Kurt.”

“I already have, Blaine,” the Baron replied as his eyes went down. Bleyn’s expression brightened when he sneaked a peek at Kurt’s midsection.

When Lord Walditch approached his horse, he found Lieutenant Wensworth holding the reins for him. He aided His Lordship mount, and when he handed up the reins, the Lieutenant stated in a hushed tone, “My Lord, be weary of His Imperial Highness. He may not be entirely honourable in his intentions.”

A bolt of angry electricity pulsed from Kurt’s heart into his torso, and he blinked. He glared at the officer, barely believing what he heard. The Baron quickly swallowed his rage, knowing that lashing out would prove nothing but the truth. Collecting his thoughts, Kurt looked down at the officer and nodded. Blue eyes then glanced up the line of horses to see the Grand Duke climbing up onto his stallion after a brief conversation with Captain Smirov. Have the officers of their respective escorts spoken about their charges? Is Bleyn being warned? Has Lieutenant Wensworth listened to the gossip of the scandalous sex parties in the opium dens of Saint Petersburg frequented by the nobility? What would he say to the Earl once they returned to Saint Petersburg? Irrespective of their bodies betraying a mutual interest in each other, what did Kurt know of the young man?

Consumed by distracting thoughts, Kurt barely noticed the sun pocking through the clouds casting shadows from the west as they rode on. A little over a mile later, the lead elements of the stretched-out column bunched up together to stare at a vista of a march surrounding stands of lifeless trees to the east. The trees ahead held evidence of a recent fire creating a large meadow dotted with fresh grass and shrubs. The Grand Duke settle next to their guide, who dug into a saddlebag. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and Bleyn suddenly felt as if a ship moved beneath him. A hand fell on his handle of his snapper3.

“Hobgoblins in the wood!” Private Blake yelled from a few yards away. The marine kicked his heels into his horse and charged into the clearing with his pistol in hand. The sharp crack of a rifle ended his life while other shot ripped holes in trees.

A dozen puffs of smoke rose in the distance wood along where bright reddish-yellow flashes of powder exploding in barrels. Lieutenant Shchyotkin lurched forward in the saddle to protect the Grand Duke, and then his body toppled from his bolting horse. To Bleyn’s left, another horse screamed and reared up, throwing its rider to the ground before it ran few yards and then slid to the mud thrashing about. The practiced reflexes from years of training and the experiences of war thrust the heels of Bleyn’s boots into his horse's sides. The animal broke into a gallop as the Russian royal turned toward the forest. The whistle of a bullet passed his head, forcing him to duck low. The ground next to him rose into the air as other projectiles missed their mark. The voice of doom echoed in his head, and then he heard a deep-throated growl. The smell of an animal invaded his nostrils, and he swore he saw thick, puffed-up fur surround him.

One of the three sword-bearing Russians rushing the enemy infantry slid from his mount as blood exploding from his arm. The two remaining horsemen yelled at the Prussians, jamming the shot into their rifles. With the thundering horses ten yards distant, one of Prussian raised his rifle and fired. The projectile struck the mare in the centre of the chest, and the animal keeled over, tossing the rider. Two Prussians jumped forward, thrusting their bayonets pierced his body, but one returned to the line. The other rider swerved to the right and slashed the enemy soldier across the arm and chest before turning away.

Kurt suddenly glanced over his shoulder, seeking escort's rear echelon spread out through the trees. The absence of rifle fire in the forest behind them told him their attackers might not know the actual size of their force. Waving his hand to get a startled private, Kurt issued a sharp command in Russian. The fear in the soldier’s eyes vanished, and he wheeled his mount around and plunged along the path they had followed.

Lieutenant Wensworth positioned himself in front of Kurt and fired his snapper at the enemy troops on the far side of the clearing. Digging into his powder pouch to reload, he prepared his pistol even as he blocked the Baron from entering the fray. All of sudden, a bullet tore through Lieutenant’s throat, and the man fell between the horses dragging a bright red smear down the stallion’s white flanks. By the time the body hit the ground, Kurt had his pistol out and fired into the clearing. From behind, Samson maneuvered around the Lieutenant’s body, joining Kurt as he raced toward the Grand Duke at the centre of the Russian forces.

Captain Smirov galloped toward his royal charge with four riders at his back. The moment he cleared the trees, the officer fired his gun, and an enemy soldier fell. The guard commander reached the Grand Duke just as seven sword-bearing riders wearing Prussian grey charged out of the trees to the right and left of the reforming infantry. One of them fell to the mud after taking a shot from a pistol, but the rest thundered on. Captain Smirov roared commands, and three Russians challenged the cavalry on the right. One fell to rifle fire before riders danced their mounts around one another, hacking with swords. Two riders from the Prussian left swerved in front of the infantry, where friendly fire dropped one of them. Yelling at the top of his lungs, Bleyn drew his sabre and charged the Prussian left.

With Captain Smirov at his right and two mounted men to the left, the Grand Duke held his sword out in front of him. The man riding beside Bleyn spun from his saddle just before Bleyn’s sword skidded along the blade of a heavy framed man wearing a metal breastplate. Wheeling his horse around, he swung at a Prussian soldier coming from behind him. The tip of his sword smashed into his helmet, and the horse lost its rider. Turning again, he saw Kurt exchanging blows with a man with a mustache from an awkward angle. Hauling a second pistol from his belt, the Grand Duke aimed and fired. The flash illuminated his face, and then he lost sight of Kurt in the billowing cloud of smoke in front of him. Bleyn yelled in English and kicked his mount in the ribs. The large animal loudly snorted, and it flew across the meadow, followed by Captain Smirov. His thighs tightened as Bleyn rose in the saddle and swung at the soldier attacking Kurt with all his strength. His sabre cut up under the larger man’s chin, and the Grand Duke felt his blade strike bone. A second later, he felt sudden forward motions as he severed the head from the body.

The spray of blood startled the Baron of Walditch, who expected to see an eager Prussian soldier bearing down on him rather than the silly grin of a Grand Duke. A Russian regular passed on the other side of Bleyn to engage a Prussian soldier, and Kurt saw the dense lead pellet cut through the man’s chest. The Baron of Walditch set his heels to his mount and raced toward Bleyn, engaging a Prussian in the uniform of an officer. The enemy horse soldier defended himself with great skill, and when Kurt joined in, he used his snapper to deflect the incoming blow. Using his thighs to control his mount, the officer maneuvered the horse with ease, and then he flipped his wrist. Kurt yelled as cold metal sliced into his thigh, followed by the warmth of his blood soaking into his breeches. His vision instantly blurred, and he wavered in the saddle before sliding to his right.

Bleyn called out when is saw the Prussian’s blade come back up coated with Kurt’s blood. The sight of Lord Hummel lying on the ground with horses dancing around him took the wind out of the Grand Duke’s sails. Again, he felt thick fur engulf him absorbing a blow of a sharp blade and hurling bullets. The Prussian officer stared at his sabre with a puzzled look and dug his heels into his horse. Spinning the animal around, he yelled orders to the infantry as nine more Prussians burst from the forest.

“Hold!” The roaring Russian word echoed through the trees and over the swamp. Off to the right, the infantry frantically loaded their weapons. To the left, mounted men exchanged sabre swings, and then a rifle blast toppled the horse beneath the Russian soldier. Once more and louder, the man roared, “Hold your weapons!”

The commander nature of this man’s tone brought a pause in the hostilities allowing Bleyn a moment to consider their fate. The meadow spun around Bleyn as he took several sights in all at once, ending in a brutal reality―the Prussian held the upper hand. Bleyn held up a fist, and Captain Smirov yelled something. Troops on both sides stayed their weapons as they wearily stared at each other. Of the fourteen men who charged the clearing expecting to demoralize a dozen infantry, less than half that number remained on their horses or stood their ground on foot. 

“Gentlemen, I offer you an opportunity to surrender,” the newly arrived Prussian pronounced in Russian. The narrow-faced fifty-year-old officer adorned in a black uniform with sparkling honours sat tall in the saddle as his spirited, dark chestnut stallion prancing sideways in the mud.

The Grand Duke looked to Kurt lying in the grass, pointing a shaking pistol at the Prussian officer with one hand and pressing the other into his bleeding leg. Bleyn held his breath.

Reigning his mount in, the Prussian officer glanced to his right. He made what appeared to be an absent gesture, and three riflemen aimed at Kurt. In a calm, reassuring tone, the Prussian suggested, “Young man, I would advise you to put that down.”

The jitters raking Lord Hummel’s body did not guarantee he would hit the mark, but, for King and country, he must try. Then, from out of nowhere, a warm breeze ruffled his hair, disturbing his concentration. His inflamed leg tingled as if something touched it, and then he felt the presence of a woman walking through the swamp. He thought he heard the purring of a large cat, and then, without a thought, Kurt tossed the gun away.

“I see you are a gentleman, sir.” The Prussian politely nodded to Kurt. “Now, everyone, please drop your weapons and dismount.”

With his heart pounding in his throat, Bleyn instantly understood the full weight of his responsibility. As an officer and member of the Imperial family, Bleyn could not surrender just like that. He looked to Kurt, who pressed a blood-red handkerchief into his ripped pants, feeling suddenly helpless. Duty and honour rambled through his mind even as his heart made contrary demands. Fortunately, the steely look in the Baron of Walditch’s pain-filled eyes pushed Bleyn toward his obligations and the need to waste time. The sword he held slipped from his hand, landing nose-first in the ground where it wobbled for a moment before falling back toward Captain Smirov. The Grand Duke ducked his head to the right, feigning disgrace even though he gestured toward the woods with his eyes. Captain Smirov made a face, dropped his sword before signalling to his remaining comrades. Climbing down from his horse, the His Imperial Highness stepped closer to Kurt without making it look obvious.

Private Samson limped to Lord Walditch’s and skidded to his knees. He fumbled with a pouch dangling from his belt, extracting a length of bandage. Lifting Kurt’s hand, he piled it onto the wound, and it soon turned crimson. A second and third bandage stuffed onto the around faired a little better. Then he lifted his Lordship’s leg, and Kurt howled in agony. The Baron’s head dropped to the right as Kurt bit his tongue against the pain. Kurt rolled his eyeballs up to see the aristocratic Prussian staring at him with an odd expression. The man’s narrow eyes then cycled to Russian wearing an officer’s uniform and finally Bleyn. The Prussian then pointed at the riderless horses in the trees, and three infantrymen broke ranks to collect them

“It is a rare honour to trade blows with the likes of the Tsars Imperial Guard,” the Prussian commented with his eyes locked on Kurt. “Which one of you is Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov, nephew to his Imperial Majesty, Aleksandr Paulovich Romanov, Tsar of Russia. Who is Lord Kurt Hummel, Baron of Walditch, son of Burton Hummel, the Earl of Amblesey, Emissary to Russia from King George of Great Britain?”

Two Russians and a British noble exchanged surprised glances. The look on Bleyn’s face told a despondent Kurt their lives depended on what transpired in the next few seconds. The Baron’s brows narrowed as he scanned the bodies of the fallen and then the trees behind him. Bleyn’s right eye twitched as if he understood, and his gaze cycled up to his captor. Neither man had fought Prussians before, but other officers spoke of their military as professional and honourable.

Fingers abruptly coiled up into the ball, and Kurt winced when Private Samson pulled the end of the cloth wrapped his thigh tight. The Baron let out a growl, and his body shifted as he bit down against the pain. His hand fell back, striking a dead soldier and slid to the muddy grass where it fell onto something cold and metal. Rounded edged eluded to an abandoned snapper. Using the agony to mask his motions, he moved his arm as if seeking to support himself and discovered the hammer set at the firing position.

Concern for Kurt tore at Bleyn, who found himself in a precarious position surrounded by Russian and Prussian wounded and dead. While he came out of the confrontation mysteriously unscathed, the desire to rush to Kurt pulled at him regardless of the larger questions. This Prussian knew of them, which meant one of two things―a spy or a traitor. Amber brown eyes looked to where Lieutenant Shchyotkin lay face down in the trampled grass and mud with a shattered arm.

The Prussian looked down from his horse with a calm expression and nodded. In a quiet tone lacking the superiority one might expect, the noble said, “May I assume I am speaking to Grand Duke Bleyn Deyvenevich Anderov Romanov?”

Following a quick inhale, Bleyn snuffled forward to bring his foot next to the hilt of his sabre. He gazed up at the officer and then announced, “I am that Grand Duke, and my wounded comrade is Lord Hummel.”

“Count Heinz Gustav von Moltke, at your service, Your Imperial Highness, Your Lordship.” The Prussian officer bowed to each man. “I am honoured to pronounce you are my captives, and all hospitality will be provided.”

“Thank you, Count Von Moltke,” Bleyn politely replied. “I would have my wounded attended to.”

The Count nodded and then turned to the junior officer. “Get a stretcher and inform the doctor.”

The officer inclined his head and vanished into the dense vegetation leaving the odds at three to one in the Prussian favour. Add the men somewhere in the trees, and the odds evened out. However, a doctor indicated a significant Prussian presence. Standing tall, Bleyn folded his hands behind his back and commented, “A Russian Grand Duke will make for a great prize, and a British noble on Russian soil could prove useful. Marshal Jacques MacDonald will no doubt reward you. Tell me, Count Von Moltke, how do you know of Lord Walditch and myself?”

“You are a long way from where I would expect someone of your stature to be, Your Imperial Highness,” Count von Moltke observed as he made a signal to the infantry behind him.

The infantry Prussians broke the line, and then Bleyn heard Captain Smirov’s sharp intake. Over by a tuff of young trees, a Prussian raised his rifle and drove his bayonet into one of a moaning Russian. The crack of a gun drew the eye to the right, where another opponent bent down beside the man he shot in the head. The Prussian removed the Russian’s ammunition belt and weapons before hauling the dead man’s boots off.

Lord Walditch glared up at the Count as he pressed teeth into down on tongue to ease his anger and stifle the pain in his throbbing leg. He saw this in Spain and understood it eased the passing of those who would die anyway, the man who took the bullet would have lived if treated. His head fell, and then he looked to his left to see Samson staring straight ahead with the hollow eyes of a man who accepted his coming fate.

Count von Moltke lifted two fingers and ordered, “Shoot everyone exce―”

The crack of multiple guns firing from the trees splattered blood over the Count’s well-kept uniform. The heavyset man wearing a metal breastplate next to the Count called out and fell to the ground. Two of the Prussians searching the dead toppled into the mud along with two surprised horsemen. Surrounded by puffs of smoke, Russian cavalry erupted from the dense vegetation to the west of the clearing screaming at the tops of their lungs. Driving into the surprised Prussians, two of the advancing riders fell to Prussian rifle fire and then drew their pistols or defended themselves with bayonets. 

Bleyn grasped the hilt of the nearby sabre, only to have a freezing chill walk up his arm to his spine. The sensation edged down his back, crossing over his waist toward his butt cheeks. A dark oily haze rose in his mind blurting out the spark of life, and he found himself fighting the urge to kneel in submission. The world around Bleyn sank into the greasy depths of the black hole opening around him, causing his weapon to droop. Winter’s icy touch shocked the skin numbing the mind until nothing remained but an obstinate, faint musical note. The tone twinkled within the obscurity of thought as if it fought for survival, and then a minute burst of intensity cut into the gloom. Transformed into the harmonious pitches of an angel, the face of a man with stunning blue eyes warmed deadened thoughts. The body instantly reacted and involuntarily drew in a deep breath. When Bleyn breathed out, the flow of air ruffled long strands of fur, enveloping the Grand Duke in a comforting blanket. Something huge wrapped dense muscular limbs around him, and then he felt the touch of a large wet nose against his ear. A low gravelly growl pulsated from the top of Bleyn’s head to the balls of his feet, freeing the young man’s soul.

Light fluttered against his eyes as the world around him came into focus. On impulse, he looked to Kurt to see the Baron’s drooping eyes gazing back at him. The afflicted man mouthed three words, and then, Bleyn found his strength. Swinging the sabre with all his might, it did not surprise Bleyn when steel slammed into steel. Gripping his weapon with two hands, the invigorated Grand Duke hacked at the officer with all his might. A shot rang out, and an amazed Prussian aristocrat turned to see Lord Walditch, pointing a handgun at him. Despite the heat of a summer evening, the air about the three combatants felt icy until something dark slithered across the Prussian’s eyes. The moment whites returned to Count Heinz Gustav von Moltke's eyeballs, he let out a garbled whimper and toppled from his horse.

A hand fell on Bleyn’s shoulder, and when he turned to strike, he found Captain Smirov behind him. The seasoned officer of His Imperial Majesty’s Guard hollered at the startled Grand Duke, “Time to retreat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Brothers of the blade - soldiers 
> 
> 2 Dust-up – argument or fight 
> 
> 2 Snapper – pistol


End file.
